L'Incorruptible
by LifeInABox66
Summary: In the immediate aftermath of the 2010 UK general election, France takes the opportunity to educate England and America on the nature of the 1789 French Revolution and, inevitably, on the nature of its most notorious figure: Robespierre.
1. Chapter 1

A/N

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I do not own the French Revolution. I do not own the people involved in the French Revolution. I do not own any people at all, oddly enough. I do not like green eggs and ham.

**Summary: In the immediate aftermath of the 2010 UK general election, France takes the opportunity to educate England and America on the nature of the 1879 French Revolution and, inevitably, on the nature of its most notorious figure: Robespierre.**

**Pairings: Hints of England/America, but not the main focus. Possibly one-sided England/France, though exactly **_**which**_** side is difficult to tell.  
Rating: PG 13, for some swearing, some violence, but overall pretty tame.  
Warnings: **_**Be warned. This fic contains POLITICAL OPINIONS. **_**Decapitation will feature sooner or later, but that's hardly surprising given the subject matter. **

The 'modern' setting is during the UK General Election, which is when I began writing this fic. So, not technically present day, but close enough.

**Present day, 7****th**** May, 2010**

"What's his problem?" America queries to France, jerking a thumb in the general direction of England. He is crouched in the corner, head cupped in his hands with the air of someone who has been caught on microphone calling a voter a bigot. Or, at any rate, someone who is exceedingly depressed.

France tilts his head as though caught in an imaginary noose and makes an ostentatiously loud strangled noise. To which America squints in confusion. "Hung Parliament," France clarifies. "He has no government."

A disgruntled muttering can be discerned from the corner.

"Oh yeah, the election thing," says America, vaguely. The flippancy with which he speaks provokes an offended splutter from the aforementioned corner. "What happened there anyway?"America asks. England removes his head from his hands to glare sullenly at him, and is about to speak before France smoothly interjects.

"Allow me to summarise the situation," he grins, slinging an arm around America's shoulder (England's glare intensifies). "Amongst the good people of _Angleterre_, who are disillusioned with their current government's lack of finesse, there has been a movement towards greater support for the party of toffs. Presumably, they feel that toffs are the best people to run a country – quite why is beyond me, but it is clearly not beyond the British electorate. Unfortunately for the party in question, this pro-toff trend has not been widespread enough to guarantee a toff majority, despite their advantages under the joke of an electoral system. Therefore the toffs and the non-toffs are currently in a tiff as to who comes out on top."

America digests this information, somewhat perplexed. "So who won?"

France laughs gleefully, whilst England groans. "Well, the toffs have a fairly tough position in the tiff. But both the toffs and the non-toffs have claims that are tough. As tough as Teflon, you could say. It remains to be seen whether the members of the third party are predominantly pro-toff." He punctuates every 'toff' with a tap on America's shoulder. The latter is looking decidedly uncomfortable.

"Oh, shut _up_, you interminable bore of a pathetic excuse for an alliterative frog," England mumbles, more out of habit than enthusiasm.

"That was mangled garbage," retorts France, releasing America, but adding impishly: "I suppose you couldn't choose between insults. Sort of the same way you can't choose a government. Indecision is the road to banality, _Angleterre_!" Then, because he can't resist the opportunity to go too far, he continues with: "You can chalk this result up to disillusionment with your politicians in general."

"The problem with you is that you've never had a revolution," America adds mischievously, just as France knew he would (when the squabbling commences between the three nations, France can normally trust America to side with him). Nothing could have been calculated to irritate England further.

"I _did_ have a revolution, you historical dunce," England snaps. "The Civil War."

"Not a proper one," says France. "You brought the monarchy back in seconds, practically. I call that half-hearted. Again, moderation and indecision destroy you...!"

"It wasn't half-hearted! There were heads on pikes and everything!"

"Ah," says France, sagely, "if your criterion for its success is the resultant decapitation, then you don't even begin to understand revolution. Plus, when it comes to _that_, I beat you hands down. Or heads down, anyway."

"Yes, you and your butcher Robespierre," says England, disdainfully. "A true man of _decision_. His decisiveness was a triumph, wasn't it? The oh-so-noble Terror."

"Once again, your capacity to turn a complex situation into over-simplified idiocy astounds me," says France, playfulness slightly overtaken by hostility at the mention of Robespierre.

"Listen to him! He's still making excuses for that bloodthirsty dictator," says England, appealing to America. As a debating technique, this is fairly ill-advised.

"Whoa. Not taking sides here," America responds. "Everyone knows when you two start arguing, the only thing to do is sit back and watch you tear chunks out of each other." He proceeds to do so, as England and France begin sniping at each other in earnest.

"You've been listening to your historians too much," says France. "_Imbecile_. You were there. You know Robespierre was never a dictator."

"Isn't it funny how we always forgive the patriots? The ones who identify themselves with the country. No matter how many people they kill," England needles. "It is amazing how egotistical we are. A man or woman can be as bloodthirsty as they like, yet if all is done in the name of their country or, worse still, 'the people', we can't help but romanticise them. Robespierre is a prime example. You were obsessed with that nasty piece of work."

France rolls his eyes. "What do you know? You haven't even managed to get rid of your monarchy. Get back to your 'election thing'" – here America snickers – "I've half a mind to write my own biography of _L'Incorruptible_."

"_L'impitoyable_, rather," mocks England (with deliberate and excruciating mispronunciation). "Well, why don't you?" France moves towards the door. "What are you doing?"

"Finding a pen and paper."

"You're going to write a biography. A nation, writing a biography. Why?"

"Because someone who was there should, and there's no one else who qualifies, given the slight inconvenience of human mortality," France says, rolling his eyes.

"Mortality induced by the Revolution itself," England drawls back. "You know, if I realized you were going to do what I suggested, I'd have recommended you go jump off a cliff instead."

"Really? How unimaginative of you. The road to banality, _Angleterre_," France all but sings. With that, he flings himself into a chair, pulls a nearby desk forward and begins, with a flourish, to write.

**France's Narrative**

I suppose I am writing this because of Robespierre, rather than because of the Revolution. Though on the outset, it is in fact because of England – the fact that I'm bothering with this little memoir, that is. We were arguing about something deeply relevant and important, whose nature I forget, when England said something he probably imagined was profound and cutting, about patriotism. Suffice to say that _this_ is the result. And it's probably more about the Revolution than Robespierre. England rarely understood revolution – he viewed it, and continues to view it, as some temporary irrationality that manifests in mass murder and ends in dictatorship. Probably the subject touches a nerve with him – perhaps several nerves, located around 1642 and 1776. A sensitive plant, our _Angleterre_.

This isn't about actions so much as ideas. And, writing this, I begin to realize that it is about both the Revolution _and_ Robespierre. The two are inextricably linked, at least in the former's perspective.

The beginning occurred in 1775. Or, at any rate, it's a good enough place to begin. I won't tire you and myself with the rest. Even 1775 was only the beginning retrospectively, for at the time I did not see its significance. England's 'recollection in tranquillity' thing at work here, I guess.

Upon acceding the throne, Louis proclaimed 'I wish to be loved' – a wish not uncommon amongst most people, but rarely put into practice amongst most rulers. Still, in accordance with this sentiment, he decided to grace the Parisian college Louis-le-Grand with his presence on the way back from his coronation at Reims.

Perhaps it was exhaustion after a ceremony which was both heavy on the decorum and politically tense; perhaps it was residual pessimism brought on by the June rain (well, it's easy to attach meanings in hindsight). Probably I was just tired. Regardless, I decided to stay behind and wander back to the palace by foot instead of travelling with the royal couple. The visit itself had been perfunctory at best – a student had given a fleeting speech outside, whilst the King and Queen remained in their coach and drove away within seconds of its conclusion. Did I mention that, in terms of omens, nothing boded well that day?

As for me, I wandered for a while, outside. In the rain. Yes, it was one of _those_ moments, in which I took the time to, for want of a more elegant term, brood. Well, to be frank, sulk. That was what it amounted to during the day, clothed both literally and metaphorically in the warmth of your traditional, indulgent aristocratic lifestyle. Of course, at dark, the nightmares were wont to set in. I was bombarded with visions of starvation, desperation and - more recently - fury. I would be kneeling in the freezing mud, with the hostile air searing across my face. I would be crouching in the gutter, scarcely noticing the muck and deluge with which I was surrounded, feeling only the pangs of hunger which wracked my body. Briefly, I would glance upwards to the lofty city towers, or else the remorseless country sky – and realise just how low I had been brought by comparison. Usually, the dreams would conclude with a sort of resigned hopelessness. Lately, fatalism had been replaced with fury, a completely undirected and beyond my control – this, I knew, was a link to the people. My people. All my people. Equally my people. And, in my dreams, I was one of them. And was I ever resentful of the ruling class.

Nevertheless, during the day, what was piercing, breathtaking rage in my dreams became, to all intents and purposes, sulking.

(Elegant, Romantic and broodingly attractive sulking, but sulking nonetheless...)

Mercifully, my thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a boy, slight and fastidiously dressed. The same one who had delivered the speech. He didn't appear to notice me.

I wondered if he was disappointed by the monarchs' quick departure. "It's a shame they didn't stay," I said, deciding I would be kind. "You learn not to expect much from kings." That much was true.

He turned towards me, surprised; I don't think it had crossed his mind to be upset.

"It was all a show today, anyway," I shrugged. "Poor Louis. Condemned to a life of veneer. Not that he realises. 'I wish to be loved', for crying out loud... _Provided a man is not mad, he can be cured of every folly but vanity,_" I added, without thinking. Then, uneasily, I realised what I had said.

Fortunately, he did not look disapproving or shocked – on the contrary, he was suddenly animated rather than distant. "You are a follower of Rousseau?" he asked, excitedly.

"... No," I answered, carefully, though not as firmly as I should have done. This was perhaps a little dangerous. But then, who could be genuinely scared of Louis and Antoinette? Resentful, perhaps. But the royal pair did not intimidate me. I resolved to cease being so abominably _careful_ about what I said.

"No? Why not?"

"I have little choice in what to believe," I said, flippantly enough. "Let's say that I am what my boss makes of me." The idiots. Let them try to regulate me.

He nodded, comprehending. _Man is born free; and everywhere he is in chains_. I wondered how this applied to anthropomorphic nations. Messily, I suspected. "It is terrible when you cannot believe what you choose," he said, with enough restraint for me to surmise that it was only politeness that kept him from arguing back more forcefully in favour of free speech and Rousseau, who I guessed was an idol of his. Me too, I thought, wryly.

"Perhaps. But what if I don't know what I want to believe?" At the moment, I was nostalgic for long discussions on political theory with Jean-Jacques.

"I find that difficult to understand, Monsieur. Everyone has a belief in something." Ah. A zealot in the making, I observed.

(The unsettling accuracy of that observation is not lost on me.)

Oddly, this veiled, cryptic little conversation over a banned philosopher was the closest I had come to expressing the rebellion that mingled with anger from my nightmares. "I suppose so. Injustice may burn away at the soul," I proclaimed, grandiosely, with more than a touch of facetiousness, "yet here and now, we do as we are told because there is no other way. It is not what we would necessarily choose, but has there ever been a choice?"

"Burning is not the answer," he replied, with a dark sort of chuckle. "That's all I know." I laughed, appreciatively. I preached fatalism aloud, but nothing could ever make me believe in what I said. It was what I thought that mattered – and my thoughts tended towards _rebellion_.

- Upon reflection, this is irrelevant. My first meeting with Robespierre is appealing only in terms of narrative chronology. It was brief and probably uninteresting - its implications only struck me years later. But now is not the time to debate how to tell a story. I mean to begin properly now. This is not only about Robespierre, but also the Revolution. Let us therefore commence with the Revolution.

**Present Day**

France becomes aware of both England and America peering irritatingly over his shoulder at his scrawled efforts.

"You've been here writing for hours. I had no idea that creating something so irrelevant could also be so riveting," remarks England, scowling. Obviously things are not going well with him.

"You do realise you're using pen and paper?" adds America. "You know, there _is_ such thing as word processing now. And by that I don't mean typewriters – Luddite much?" England displays an amusingly disorientated 'good-grief-America-actually-remembers-something-about-British-history' look, which modulates even more hilariously into a 'why-do-I-feel-so-absurdly-pleased-at-that?' expression, shortly followed by 'somebody-fetch-professional-help-quickly'.

France takes advantage of England's confusion to snap: "Go away, both of you. _Laisse-moi tranquille!_" Besides, writing by hand has somehow far more _ambience_ than impersonal typeface could ever manage.

"Geez, no need to be so tetchy about it," says America.

"This is _my house_!" yells England, who apparently thinks that now is the perfect time to be tetchy. For a second, France gives the latter comment genuine consideration. Then he shrugs, and resumes his writing.

He is dimly aware of America asking: "So what's up with your election thing, anyway? Has that Clegg guy made up his mind yet?" The response is (worryingly) a guttural growl.

**France**

Consider the last instalment to be a prelude of sorts - to coin an accurate cliché, the calm before the storm. Now, flash forward a handful of years, sling in more hunger, more abuse, an incompetent monarch, an unprecedented American War of Independence, the resultant mounting national debt, and essentially the result is this: the hopeless, undirected fury turns to determined, lucid _outrage_. To give England his due, I have perhaps maligned him a little too much for his lack of understanding about revolution. There have been times where he came extremely close to understanding. Knowing him now, many younger nations are surprised when I tell them England was once an unscrupulous pirate; personally, I think they would be more surprised to learn that he was once a _scrupulous_ Romantic. As for America – well, his own revolution had been an inspiration to me, to Robespierre and the rest. But we took it further than he – we did not stop with replacing the institution; we changed the very _purpose_ of government.

... Because this was a revolution built firmly upon class lines – let historians tell you otherwise, but ours could be described as a precursor to poor Russia's February 1917. This was truly a revolution of the people – not people of wealth, but people of poverty. And yes, the phrase 'the people' has been bandied about to and fro until it has become meaningless - but blame that not on the original movement, for this was truly a revolution in the name of all people. It was both ahead of its time and curiously behind; it was vindicated and vilified, celebrated and condemned as madness. And, indeed, it _was_ bliss to be alive in that dawn.

This was a time when, finally, the ordinary man or woman could stand, face their oppressor and spit in his face. It is taken for granted nowadays because nobody remembers a time in which that was not possible – in which any action that was not conformity was unthinkable. To say that 'people stayed in their place back then' has lost its meaning, but I remember a time in which people were chained to their miserable, cramped existences, even if some nations have forgotten. The Revolution was more than just a struggle for democracy.

... You must think I am being uncharacteristically serious, no? But I _was_ serious then.

**Present Day**

"This is drivel, frog."

"Shut up, _Angleterre._"

"Are you ever going to write about what happened, or are you going to perpetually philosophise over the nature of revolution?"

"Shut _up_, _Angleterre._"

"Is this a biography, or a pathetic attempt at an epic novel?"

"_Angleterre? Shut up._"

**France**

I _was_ serious then. What kept running through my mind was, oddly, an event which had occurred two whole Louis ago. Namely, the Sun King's proclamation of '_l'etat, c'est moi'_. At the time I had brushed it off indulgently. Now – I was seething. The damned _arrogance_ of that man – one who was, after all, no more than one man! The current Louis – and his stuck up wife, with her frivolous expenditure and her diamond necklaces – clearly had similar aspirations. Well, I would no longer be passive and watch my people suffer - nor would the people themselves.

Of course, I was still waiting to tell the royal couple as much before the meeting of the Estates General in May 1789. Initially, I had made some effort to be charming – or, failing that, civil. A few years into Louis' reign and my efforts were waning. They guessed as much through my growing surliness. Nations and rulers have strange relationships at best; generally we stay loyal, even though we may dislike them. We fear the consequences otherwise – thus, it takes a special sort of frustration to spark a nation-led revolution. Luckily, I was plenty frustrated.

I had not forgotten the boy from Louis-le-Grand, though his name eluded me. Had I ever known it? Sneer all you will (I address this remark to England, who persists in reading over my shoulder) but in my head I referred to him as 'Petit Rousseau'.

In the hall on that first day of the Estates-General, I was positioned next to the King and Queen. Nowadays, there are few people who know who I am – that day, I am certain that every deputy in the hall knew that I was their country. In times of intensified political awareness, that tends to be the case - people become aware of their nation, perhaps because they identify with us more. At any rate, the tension was palpable, and I swear I could read the thoughts of the Third Estate: _Is he with us, or against us? Will France remain neutral, or will he pick a side?_ Or perhaps this is just narcissism – certainly England (now laughing rather irritatingly – shut up, _Angleterre!_) seems to think so. At any rate, they sat so far to the back of the hall that it was difficult to discern much for sure.

According to protocol, the First Estate (the clergy), the Second Estate (the nobility) and the royals stood, removed their headgear, sat and then replaced their hats. Yet another pointless piece of ceremony, which stuck in my throat like a shard. To add a further layer of indignity to the whole proceedings, the representatives of the Third Estate were obliged to stand throughout the entire event.

They did not.

Oh, it was spectacular! One by one, they sat – true, they were positioned far away, but I could imagine the defiance written on each of their faces. Then, a handful removed their hats – more followed suit, until all were standing and all were hatless. The most perfect form of silent rebellion! It was then that I knew without a doubt where my allegiances lay; I was fully determined to express it. With a flourish, I stood, yanked my hat from my head and flung it to the side of the hall.

(It hit some poor aristocrat in the face. I did not bother to check his reaction, and history has been silent on the matter, so I suppose we shall never know who it was, or any resultant emotional scarring.)

Louis paled almost comically. "We tried to accommodate for them," he murmured, scarcely audibly. I knew that. I knew, in his own way, he had tried to balance the radical move of summoning the Estates General by maintaining the class system in the only way he thought possible. I dared a look at Marie Antoinette, and all I could see in her face was scorn. Well, that made things easy.

The time for people to stay in their place had passed. The time for countries to stand obediently by their leaders had also passed.

Ignoring the stares which I attracted – they ranged from quizzical to scandalized – I strode purposefully to the other end of the hall, my footsteps echoing madly throughout the building. What a cacophony to disturb that spread of silent faces! I reached the end of the room, and joined the ranks of the Third Estate deputies, taking an empty seat at the front of the crowd. Nobody broke the silence once the echoes finished resounding, for a few moments. Then, there was a torrent of hushed murmuring, whispered congratulations and beams. A few leaned over to clasp my hand in silent thanks. I caught the eye of the deputy next to me –

- And almost fell out of my seat.

_Petit Rousseau._

Only not so petit anymore. Well, actually, still quite petit. Yet now an adult. To meet the boy from Louis-le-Grand once more, here of all places...

(Well, why not here? It made sense.)

He nodded slightly, in recognition, utterly composed. I blinked, astounded. How long had he known that the man he had talked to on the day of the coronation and his country were one and the same?

Meanwhile, Louis and his ministers seemed to have decided to carry on as if nothing had happened. Jacques Necker began to deliver what was to be the most boring and interminable speech I had ever heard on the state's finances. Ah, Necker - a reasonably competent minister, sympathetic to the Third Estate, but wholly _useless_ as a politician. To add insult to the tedium, it was almost impossible to hear what he was saying from the back of the room. The deputies began to show signs of restlessness; I could hardly blame them. _This_ was the man who controlled my fate?

"It's amazing to see you again," I leaned over and whispered to my neighbour. "We were never properly introduced that day. Do you remember? I am Francis Bonnefoy."

"You are my country," he replied – not in awe, but as a simple statement of fact. "I remember. I am Maximilien Robespierre." And, my friends (or, at any rate, the nations who still persist in reading over my shoulder like demented bookends), that is how I was properly introduced to _l'Incorruptible_ for the first time. _He_ seemed perfectly composed; I was... startled, to say the least.

"I wish that insufferable man would get to the point," I muttered, indicating Necker. I hadn't been able to decide what to say next, so I settled for finding common ground. Ordinarily, my initial plan of action when faced with an unusual social situation would be '_seduce'_; for once, this hardly seemed appropriate. "What we need is nothing short of a reversal in the system. We need an end to this ridiculous apathy of the ruling class, and a government that sympathises rather than turning a blind eye, that doesn't tell the people they suffer due to their own idleness rather than the ruler's selfishness; all he's doing is spouting irrelevant facts and figures." This comment was louder than I had intended, but the deputies who heard me gave muted signs of agreement. I wished I had said it louder.

"You think so?" said Robespierre. "I am glad. You are with us. I knew you would be – after all, how could a country abandon his people?"

"I can't stand it," I confided. "I won't be passive. Whatever hope remains for me is rooted in the Third Estate. Absurd that the nobility and clergy control my fate," I murmured. I mused upon this for a second. "Bastards, the lot of them. What _is_ he doing up there?"

"Necker? It looks as though he's about to finish." Robespierre turned slightly to face me. "He _is _for the people," he chastised.

"But he's too damn timid in showing it. He looks sick."

"Wait – what's happening?"

"He's... he's passing the script to someone by his side... he can't finish it! Listen – his voice is shaking." Necker, trembling, sat down, and some nonentity or other was obliged to take up the mantle of orator. "Good God," I said. "The man can't even finish his own speech without assistance."

"Nevertheless, he is the only one who might listen. It is due to his persuasion of the King that the Estates are even meeting in the first place. The question is what can we do? We outnumber the other Estates, but the vote distribution is weighted against us. If only the people could be _heard_..."

This deputy, Robespierre, seemed to mirror my own thoughts – eerily so. There was so much I wanted to discuss, yet I could hardly decide where to begin. Finally, here was someone who understood what was happening, and who was not blinded by convention or tradition – but, oddly, I could not focus on a single issue, and even if I could, I could not work out how to bring the conversation to it. All I could think of now was a single _idea_: that government should be for the people. But he must already know that. All I managed to say was:

"We are in agreement." Which, on paper, seems stuffy and vague. But, in reality, it meant more than anything else. It summed up perfectly how we both acknowledged the same ideas – neither of us were sure of exactly how 'radical change' must be achieved; all we knew was that it was necessary.

At that moment, the speech finished, and the deputies stood to leave. Momentarily disorientated, I turned, expecting to see Robespierre, but he had vanished in the crowd. Meanwhile, I was surrounded by enthusiastic deputies of the Third Estate; all were talking at once, and I could not discern individual words amongst the clamour, but the upshot was this: _we are in agreement, and the country is on our side_. I hadn't been happier in years.

**Present Day**

"Once you have finished this," remarks England, "I'll go through and count the number of times you refer to 'the people'. Really, France, it's a meaningless phrase. 'The people' aren't some amorphous blob, like you seem to think."

"What a way you have with words, _Angleterre._"

"Idealism at its most damaging," says England. "You always looked on the verge of a mental breakdown back then."

"No he didn't," scoffs America. "If anything, he was just more hyper than usual."

"That's what I meant."

"Tch. Well I don't see what's wrong with wanting democracy. Kings suck," proclaims America.

"Actually," says France, "there were very few of us who wanted to get rid of the monarchy at that point. If you'd asked them a few years before 1879, most of the Third Estate deputies would never have dreamed of revolution, or starting a republic. It was always about the poor, and not necessarily about the actual concept of kings."

"Oh," says America, disappointed. "But – that changed."

"That came later," France assures him. "But that's what I _mean_, when I talk about 'the people'. It's just a way of expressing that one idea upon which we all agreed– that all should have an equal chance at life, and that government should be a force for good." England glances sceptically at him. "Well, when I say 'we', I mean those who sat on the left in the National Convention." England shrugs, noncommittally. "It was that one commitment to better the lives of the poor which motivated them the most."

England rolls his eyes. "There's the idea, but then there's what happens when it's put into practice."

"Quite," says France, darkly. "But that doesn't discredit the idea; only the method."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**

**Thanks to everyone who read/reviewed/added this to their favourites! **

**Not every chapter will be updated as quickly as this one, but I'll do my best to keep them fairly regular. **

**Enjoy!**

**France's Narrative**

Afterwards, I was confronted by a disgruntled king. He quite clearly could not comprehend why I had behaved the way I had. A century ago, I might have found this narrow-mindedness almost endearing, a trait to be tolerated; now, I thought, _simpleton_! Antoinette, I think, fathomed a little better, and resented me for siding with the Third Estate. But she also did not fully understand my motives – how could she, having been isolated from real life since birth? They were both frightened... but not nearly as much as they should have been. Still – it was too early to break from them completely – matters were not desperate yet, so they were to be tolerated. Such is the relationship between nation and monarch!

As for me – between May and June, I spent as little time with the royals as possible. Instead, I devoted all of my time to the Palais-Royal, owned by the Duc d'Orleans – the reason being that it was here that the radicals met. Normally, it served as a trading area – now it housed the opposition to the crown. It was here that I found Robespierre once more– and others.

(I had not been particularly apprehensive about losing sight of him the other day – nations always encounter those who will later influence them. I was reasonably certain that Robespierre was to be influential – and if not, I thought, let it be. Sure enough, I soon met him again.)

In fact, I met countless individuals, all of whom shared that same fundamental _idea_. The debates which took place in the Palais-Royal were constant, lively and delightfully haphazard, with all contributing at once. The conversation, as though in reflection of my own political position, was in an ever-shifting state of flux. Often in the morning I would find myself vociferously defending a view that in the evening I would just as enthusiastically condemn – literally, I grew more radical by the hour, and every hour I would wince when reflecting upon how unenlightened I had been the previous one. Leaflets proclaiming opposition to the _ancien regime_ were to be found at ever corner, and the mood was one of spirited cooperation. Though the meetings were wonderfully chaotic, I was able to spend most of my time in the company of Georges Danton, Camille Desmoulins, Jean Paul Marat and, of course, Robespierre himself. Danton and Robespierre were both deputies for the Third Estate – the other two were journalists. With the uncanny knack that nations seem to have (whether it is cause or effect I don't know), I had chosen to spend my time with the four who were to become the most influential figures of the Revolution in later years.

Robespierre, I learned, was utterly single-minded when it came to politics, to the point where his reputation for humourlessness was not unfounded. That being said, he was far from the dry, emotionless figure which he is usually portrayed as. Poverty moved him deeply, but always he stressed reason over emotion –no, that is misleading, as he believed passionately in his ideals, and had clearly devoted his life to realising them. This suited me for the most part, because I was so wrapped up in my newfound egalitarian ideas that I never tired of talking politics, particularly with one who had made politics his masterpiece (some write novels; others write revolution). True, I was constantly shocking him by my propensity to flirt with everyone in a ten metre radius – but, generally speaking, it was Robespierre's designated fate to tolerate his far more outgoing companions, which he did, in all fairness, with a sort of long-suffering amusement. When I went too far and annoyed him, he had a tendency to become subdued – it was then that I sought the company of Danton, who would have struggled to come up with a definition for 'going too far'.

Danton was extroverted, extravagant and rambunctious - in later years, he stressed '_we must dare, dare again, always dare!'_; it may as well have been his motto. Much is made of the contrast he presented when compared with Robespierre. However, this is inherently misleading; there was far more to unite them than to divide them. Petty differences in personality mattered little when compared to the similarities of their political ideals – and, thus, he and Robespierre were the best of friends. Character-wise, Danton and I had far more in common – at times, I imagine Maximilien felt extremely outnumbered – but we were all far too obsessed with events to irritate each other much. Danton gave the revolution some grounding through his ever-present humour and audacity. I later learned that on the day of the king's coronation, he had run away to Riems in order to see it – strange to think that, had circumstances been slightly different, I might have met another future revolutionary on that day...

Camille Desmoulins was a figure of contradiction and surprise. In normal conversation, he was plagued by a persistent stammer; all traces of this would vanish, however, when speaking in public, at which point he radiated strength and conviction. I'd imagine he would consider himself quite cautious, but when he allowed impulse to reign, as he frequently did, he could be more quixotic and fearless than any of them. He was frequently impetuous, at times bordering on childlike; it was difficult not to view him as an idealistic adolescent – in reality, he could display ferocity. There were times when he seemed to simply float effortlessly above the rest of us, aloft in some world of brilliance – though, of course, he would not stay airborne forever.

Then Jean-Paul Marat - Marat, Marat! For an estimation of his character, consider this: I generally hold Weiss' portrayal of him in 'Marat/Sade' to be tolerably accurate, but Weiss failed to illustrate the man's sheer craziness - _despite the fact that the aforementioned play takes place in a mental asylum._ All jesting aside, Marat was an unbelievable individual – the most radical of all of us. He was capable of proclaiming in one breath the most egalitarian convictions: '_let us tax the rich to subsidize the poor'_, and then in the next, of uttering the most virulent, bloodthirsty sentiments. Later, he would tell Robespierre: '_I am the anger, the just anger of the people_'- indeed, he _was_ the revolution's sense of anger, but also its sense of justice. Half of his invitations for blood and terror, he assured me were only made half seriously; it says something that I was disinclined to believe this.

I still miss those days in the Palais-Royal, surrounded by the most intelligent, dynamic and fascinating figures. We had all reached that rare stage in history where there was a general acceptance that not only _should_ something be done; it was within the realms of possibility that change _would_ occur – if we only yelled loudly enough, or were only daring enough. Too often do would-be social reformers struggle against fatalism; we soon-to-be revolutionaries had no such doubts.

**Present Day**

"France. You have been here for a day now. I tolerated you. I let you stay here. I even cooked dinner for you. You treated the food as though it was radioactive, but the gesture was made regardless. Now piss off, why don't you?"

With some effort, France lifts his head up from the ink-splattered page. "Once I start something, I finish it," he shrugs, lightly.

"Finish it, by all means, but _get out of my house_."

"How's the election going?" France replies with a grin, selecting the one thing guaranteed to provide a distraction.

"Judging by his look of despair... pretty well?" guesses America, popping his head in around the door, then bouncing into the room. "Oh, sorry England – just came back to see how France's biography was doing."

"_Angleterre_, do stop growling – it's disconcerting," says France.

"Oh, come on, it could be worse," America informs England, somewhat generically.

"How could it be worse?" enquires France. "Who wants a Prime Minister with a face like molten plastic?"

"Yeah, have you noticed his eyebrows?" asks America, with the air of one confiding a great secret. "Whenever they move, _his forehead stays completely flat_. No wrinkles whatsoever. It's unnatural."

"It's Botox," retorts France. They both shudder. England looks murderous. Eyebrows are perhaps a sensitive subject with him.

"Anyway," America attempt to change the subject, self-preservation kicking in for what is possibly the first time in his life, "Let's see what you've written now!" Before France manages to properly protest, America snatches at the various pages scattered around England's desk.

"I'd imagine we've reached the point where we are to be subjected to obscene tales of Francis' sexual exploits," says England, who has been subjected to many such stories in the past.

"If you're implying that I slept with various revolutionaries," says France, "I hate to disappoint, _Angleterre_, but no." He snatches the papers back from America and attempts to reassemble them.

"You cannot be serious. _You_? Did you take a vow of celibacy around the late 1700s, and none of us noticed?"

France merely looks scornful (though, in actuality, he is amused beyond words).

"Surely – Robespierre?"

"Was called _L'Incorruptible_ for a reason."

"Danton?"

"Was happily married!"

"That has _never _prevented you. Desmoulins? Marat?"

France shakes his head. "This was _revolution_ – kindly remove your mind from the gutter, _Angleterre._" Somehow, he manages to keep a straight face saying this.

"This coming from _you_?" England splutters. Clearly, he does not believe him. Overall, France can't blame him.

**France**

To continue with our _heavily_ interrupted narrative... we return to 1789, after a gap of a month or so. Here, we witness a number of strange venues; revolution bred in a royal palace, and our first major seditious action took place in a tennis court.

Well, it did eventually. That day, on the 20th June, we had every intention of letting proceedings take place, as usual, at the _Salle des Etats_ – the hall where the Estates-General met. It was Louis who had other plans.

My friends and I were approaching the hall – since that first day, I had always sat with the Third Estate – when we noticed a large group outside the doors, some pounding at the threshold, others yelling furiously. "We've been barred from the meeting!" yelled one. In actual fact, this was not quite the case – the king had motioned for the Estates-General to be closed and to annul the Assembly decrees, but the motive was the same, and it was an affront of the highest order to the Third Estate – or, as we had begun calling ourselves since three days ago, _the National Assembly_.

"This is a plot against the Third Estate!" someone yelled.

As I had avoided speaking with the king for weeks, I was just as ignorant of what was going on as the rest of them. Consequently, I was equally devoid of a logical plan. Thus, I settled for an _illogical_ plan – namely, I pushed my way to the front of the crowd and began pounding on the door with all my strength. "Let us _in_, you brainless tyrant!" No response. I continued to attack the threshold, with no small amount of frustration. So he wanted to get rid of opposition, did he? Well, it would take more than a _door_ to subdue us -

"Francis, you should stop that," said Robespierre, who had followed me. "It isn't helping much. Also, I don't think the king is actually in the room."

"Quiet, you. It isn't hindering, _is_ it? Look, we've come too far to sit here obediently whilst he ignores us again. I won't let him. I intend to make as much noise as possible, to remind him – to remind them all."

"You've scraped your knuckles."

"Damn. Ow." Sure enough, little rivulets of blood now decorated the back of my hands. This considered, I settled for kicking the door instead, which made a much more satisfying _thunk _noise anyway.

Robespierre winced.

"Well, what else can we do?" I growled.

He shrugged, with equal parts hopelessness and exasperation. "I have no answer. By all means continue your fight to the death with the entrance."

Truly this acceptance denoted a victory for my superior debating skills. "Thank you. I will." I duly recommenced kicking the door and cursing.

I heard Robespierre whisper to Danton: "What do you suggest we do now?"

Danton's encouraging response ran something along the lines of a suggestion that they sell tickets.

"Open this door, you pathetic excuse for a... a monarch!" I yelled.

"Ah – excuse me?" This came from the back of the crowd, almost drowned out by the deputies' angry yells. I ignored it. Mirabeau, however, went to investigate. Robespierre and Danton stayed where they were, the one looking slightly bemused, the other looking more inclined to laugh.

"Excuse me; I think I might have a solution." A deputy elbowed his way towards me.

I looked up. "Of course. What we need is a battering ram!" I exclaimed, with wild sarcasm. I'm fairly sure it was sarcasm. "You're a genius, Citoyen...?"

"Guillotin." Do not be alarmed; this man was a simple deputy, and had not yet achieved infamy – though, yes, it was only a matter of time. "B-but, that's not what I was going to suggest." I might have actually looked disappointed; he turned instead to the deputies, who obliged him by falling reasonably silent. "I know the manager of a nearby tennis court. He is somewhat sympathetic, so I imagine he could be persuaded to... to let us in."

"Excellent!" cried a voice from the crowd.

"We can't be sidelined or attacked like this; we'll hold our meeting!"

"To the tennis court!"

I had to admit, it seemed the most appealing option. Once more, I allowed their enthusiasm to envelop me; despite my previous frustration, I felt the old optimism return. And so, we walked to the tennis court – all five hundred and seventy seven deputies, plus me. As for the rest – consult your history books. An oath was sworn: 'never to cry to the King, and to meet quietly when the circumstances demand, until the constitution of France is happily singing'. Well, _I_ felt inclined to sing that day – all the representatives but one signed. All in favour of a constitution - a new order; or we would never disband. The experience was breathtaking. We were all but unanimously (Martin-Dauch notwithstanding) opposed to the current state of affairs. It seemed to me that nothing could hamper us; not only was I convinced that revolution _could_ be achieved, I knew that it _would _be. So did we all; and to be there was pure elation.

Subsequently, chaos broke loose.

**Present Day**

"The good kind of chaos or the bad kind?" America queries. England snorts.

"Good... _and_ bad," answers France. "Is there ever such a clear distinction?"

"Yes," asserts America, baldly. "There is. All the time."

"Tch. I can't imagine you'd be able to understand complexity," mutters England, in an offhandedly insulting manner. Then, he realises the implication of such a statement; namely, that he is essentially agreeing with France, albeit indirectly. "I mean. Um. America's right. Wait – no – fuck – that is to say – uh, you're both... wrong."

"_You_ were quite enamoured with my ideas of revolution at the time, if I recall correctly," France all but purrs.

"That is a poor, _poor_ choice of words, frog."

"Fine. Intoxicated, then."

"I was not. _At_ all." England is, as always, obdurately stubborn. France decides that now is the time to deploy his most effective weapon – namely, the Romantics. Accompanied by the most expansive of gestures, in impassioned tones, he quotes:

"_For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim  
I dimmed thy light or damped the holy flame;  
But blessed the paeans of delivered France,  
And hung my head and wept at Britain's name._"

England groans. "Coleridge," he mutters, defeated.

"That, I think, speaks for itself. Of course, I could remind you of Wordsworth, too. And Byron. And Shelley. And Blake. And those are just the most famous examples –"

"All _right_, fine, you've made your point. But one group of poets does not reflect the mood of an entire nation!"

"In this case? It really did. In between the fawning over flora and fauna, revolution was all you could write about... speaking of which, I shall now return to doing so myself."

**France**

Suddenly, a mass movement emerged.

That sentence is a wholly inadequate description.

A mass movement barged its way in. A mass movement that was inexorable, unstoppable, and seemingly inevitable steamrollered everything within its path. They had, after all, declared themselves effectively the government of France (_my _government) – this gave people hope, and the sense that what they did _mattered_. There were protests; there were lootings; there were demonstrations in the streets. Louis was forced to open the Estates-General once more.

The mood amongst my friends? Nothing short of elation. There was a half-guilty, but nonetheless powerful sense of defiance that was growing with them – I swear, they thought themselves invincible. Certainly Marat and Desmoulins made up for their not being members of the Estates-General by actively immersing themselves in the protests – and, occasionally, bidding me to join them. I would lose myself among the crowds, marvelling at the triumphant ferocity of my people.

The next week, Louis sent a messenger to the National Convention to close their meeting for the day: the Marquis de Breze. A relative hush fell over the room, muting its usual impression of bustling activity. Mirabeau, who was, in effect, our leader, glanced at me. I wondered -how far could we feasibly go? Was this to be no-holds-barred rebellion, or were we to comply with Louis' demands? I gave him a small, one shouldered shrug in response: _your call. _Clearly this would set a precedent for the future behaviour of the National Assembly.

Mirabeau aimed at the Marquis the most withering of stares, and then slowly stood. "Sir," he said, deliberately, "you are a stranger in this assembly, and you have no right to speak here." I almost chuckled out loud at the Marquis' expression. "Return to those who have sent you," said Mirabeau, gaining in confidence, "and tell them we shall not stir save at the point of the bayonet!"

Following this – loud cheers! The decision had been made. We had refused to obey – once again, we emphasised the message that the order of the day was no longer deference, but open defiance.

On the 12th July, I was with the King when he made the decision to dismiss Necker, the one minister who we felt was halfway on our side. Granted, I had been dismissive of him in the past – yet there were many who felt him to be the only man close to the King who cared about the poor. Personally, I had more faith in the National Convention. Nonetheless:

"You can_not_ do this," I informed him.

"I will, if it will restore order!" Louis said, almost pettishly.

"They will not stand for this. _I_ will not stand for this."

"Francis," Louis half choked, weak-willed and watery-eyed. Honestly, he seemed to me nothing short of pathetic. "What is happening to you? Surely you know that it is my _right_ to make... any... any decision I see fit..."

I laughed, and it reverberated across the room, like the memory of my footsteps at the meeting of the Estates-General. "I don't think you understand," I said. "I do not answer to tyrants. I answer to my rightful government, the National Assembly, and they answer to _my _people, who elected them. Neither nobility, nor clergy, nor _you_ command me any longer." Poor Louis. He looked desolate. "You are no more than a man," I marvelled. "_L'Etat_," I said, jabbing a finger at my chest, "_C'est __moi_."

As predicted, the people did not stand for Necker's dismissal.

Again, that description is ridiculously inadequate.

But, again, you are surely aware of what followed. For my part, I was at the centre of events to begin with – namely, outside a cafe in the Palais-Royal, watching with pride as Camille Desmoulins delivered his immortal speech, using a nearby table as a makeshift stage. With a clear, resounding voice (no sign of his habitual stammer; I smiled at that) he yelled: "To arms!" I could not help but join in the cheers of the crowd – at that moment, I was simply one of many.

"I am ready to die a glorious death!" pronounced Camille. With that, he jumped down, and the crowd surged forwards to embrace him.

"Better to live a glorious life, my friend," I told him, when I was able. "Don't go dying on us yet. After all, the people need their leaders, if they are to rebel."

"The people need no such thing," he answered. "If we succeed, everyone here –" he gestured to his audience "-can, and will become great."

Yet it was partially due to Desmoulins' eloquence that the riots intensified – the next day, a militia, the National Guard was formed. Here, you may recognise the beginnings of a pattern – events which form the foundation of revolution...


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**

**A chapter without reference to the English Romantic poets? I am agog/aghast! No matter – we'll almost certainly be hearing from Shelley et al later. **

**So, without further ado and all that...**

**Present Day**

"Frog – this narrative is progressing at a snail's pace," remarks England. "We know what happens next. The Bastille. I suppose you were the one holding De Launey's head on a pike?"

"I wasn't even there," replies France. "Not at first." He stops, reflects, sighs. "I wish I had been."

"You wish you'd been the one with the severed head?" England smirks.

"I wish I'd been at the storming of the Bastille, imbecile!"

**France's Narrative**

It was the fourteenth of July, and I had been detained at the palace. Annoyingly, having heard of the unrest in the streets – and undoubtedly prompted by my little burst of defiance two days ago – Louis had sent a handful of idiot guards to keep me in the building. I was in the process of climbing out the window by way of escape (naturally, with infinite resourcefulness and grace) when an unexpected wave of dizziness hit me in full force. Staggering, I fell to the ground – luckily, I reflected, the window had been on the first floor, else that would have been deeply humiliating. Wryly, I recalled what Desmoulins had written in his most recent journal: _the great are only great because we are on our knees. Let us rise._ Yes, well. Weakly, I did exactly that.

Something major must have happened. The surrounding streets were crowded and confused; I could have sworn I could hear gunshots earlier. True, I had recently been afflicted nigh interminably by the kind of headaches that appear as a result of economic downturn. However, this was different. This was a major upheaval. Since the early morning, I had been feeling its effects – now, it was night.

I wandered round the area somewhat tentatively, inquiring passersby as to what had happened, and was eventually able to gather a reasonably comprehensive picture of the events that had occurred during my ignominious confinement. And it made for a most vivid and startling picture.

A mob of approximately one thousand demonstrators had gathered at the Bastille – they had been seeking gunpowder for the National Guard. What better place to obtain it? Certainly, there was a pleasing irony involved: that material once used to threaten would now be used to liberate. Moreover, it was common knowledge that the Bastille was home to the most brutal kinds of oppression and torture; what none of us knew at the time was how few prisoners remained there, but at that moment, this fact was immaterial. The Bastille was a physical monument of monarchical tyranny.

"What's – I mean, did they -? Succeed. Who... they'll be facing the army, no?" I stammered semi-coherently. The stranger who I addressed did not know. (Difficult to say whether this was due to genuine ignorance, or to my inability to phrase an understandable question.) All was in a state of panic - that was all he could tell me – and that much I could observe for myself. Unsettling enough that the crowded roads were unnaturally quiet, yet alive with murmurs. More worrying still was the pervasive sense of tension that accompanied my surroundings.

I longed to travel to the Bastille myself, but such an action would be beyond senseless. From what I could surmise, the demonstrators were being confronted by the Royal Army, and it would be physically impossible for me to enter the vicinity of the building, which would no doubt be heavily barricaded and reinforced. Yet this _uncertainty_ was agonising! The Bastille was barred to me. Instead, I resolved to find my friends. Robespierre; his lodging in the Rue de Saintonge was the closest, I thought.

I must have looked a catastrophe when he let me in; frantic, dishevelled and probably coated in dust after my impromptu scuffle with the ground. To his credit, he took all this in his stride and did not question my appearance.

"Francis," he said, managing to look only slightly surprised (I knew he was reasonably averse to surprise visits, yet these seemed extenuating circumstances). "I was worried about you." Then, virtually in the same breath, he added: "Isn't it astonishing?" Without pause, he invited me in.

"Thank you," I breathed, as he offered me a chair nearby a cluttered desk strewn with various political journals and pamphlets – amongst them, I noticed Desmoulin's. "Sorry. It's late."

"That it is," he nodded, distractedly. So serious, as always! "It does not matter. But why -?"

"Oh, it's an idiotic tale," I grimaced. "Louis ordered some lackeys to keep me locked in the palace. Huh. Too little too late as far as security was concerned – if he honestly wanted to incarcerate me, he should have been less feeble about it. Suffice to say I escaped – and." I cut off. Some unfathomable whim dictated that I should not speak of the Bastille directly. Something to do with a desire for normalcy – I was unused to being kept in the dark about events, and the dizziness persisted, and seeing Maxime helped stabilise my thoughts. I did not want to disorientate myself any further – besides, we were powerless to do anything but wait. Why exacerbate this insufferable suspense?

"I'm tired, Maxime," I told him; he sat with his chin cupped in one hand, watching me in concern. "Not emotionally – far from it; I've never felt more alive! – but I also feel so fatigued – no - burdened."

"Of course you do," he said. "The people's suffering is your own. And now – they have spoken – through action! Once we have a constitution, you will be less confused. The National Assembly met today, and will continue to do so until we know for sure what is happening. You should attend tomorrow." There was no avoiding the subject – yet I hardly knew what to think. Robespierre's face was alight with anticipation.

"You know," I said, in a tone that I myself found strange, so hell knows it must have perplexed Robespierre, "If I could eradicate all history, I would. No – not _all _history, but every single political tradition – I wish I could destroy all the social barriers that have accumulated in just one swipe. That's the trouble – you see? I'm encumbered by the past. Titles and wealth are passed on; poverty is similarly inherited. If only I – we – the country – could start afresh. Get rid of all these – artificial – constraints that we've willingly permitted to trap us..." This was the kind of talk which abounded at the Palais-Royal, but my semi-coherent rendition of those common themes had a sort of desperation to it that had never been present before. I felt – "I feel – doomed. Or fated. I don't want to destroy. I don't want to _have _to destroy. I wish those structures would – that they would just melt away, damn them!" I gave a small snuff of laughter. Addressing my hands, I added: "As it is, there is so much we will have to tear down."

"And so we will, Francis," Robespierre assured. That was characteristic of him, of course – he had no compunctions in eradicating what inhibited progress. Naturally, I refer only to institutions, not people – back then, at any rate.

"How much will be lost or ruined in the process? How much suffering will there be in order to achieve a blank slate? Will... who will we harm?" Hah. Immaterial, that question. How was Robespierre to know? I was given the strange impression that, in his innocence, he had all the answers I sought. After all, the radicals had been able to tell me so much before...sometimes, beside the revolutionaries, I felt immeasurably old; more often, I felt like a child.

"Not 'who'," insisted Robespierre. "It is not the people that we seek to destroy, but the institutions. The buildings, in this instance. Never people. They are not to blame. We protect life." And he meant that.

"You're thinking of the innocents, _les miserables, _the '_poor naked wretches'_," I said. "What of those who are linked to the institution?"

"They must choose, of course," he replied, as though it was only natural. "Francis. You look – haunted."

"What if they fight back?"

"Then there will be a struggle. We always knew that. Better that we champion the oppressed than cry over the obstinacy of the privileged few. If they _choose _to fight – well, we shall not surrender!"

"But we _will _show mercy, won't we, Maxime?"

"Naturally. To set the precedent, if nothing else," said Robespierre, the lawyer in him surfacing. "But will _they _show any mercy in return?" he asked, thoughtfully. I shuddered. "You _are_ in a strange mood tonight."

"You noticed? Strange times, Maxime. Strange – and wonderful. Precarious, though. We've won all the battles so far. Who says we'll win them all?" The Bastille was to be the most decisive battle. What wouldn't I have given for some news! "I'll admit it frightens me a little."

"I find that difficult to believe," he smiled. "I cannot imagine you frightened. It is incongruous enough to see you so grave. Particularly now, when we are on the brink of all being possible!"

"Apprehensive, then. That's a better word."

"Are you sure you are all right?"

"Honestly, I'm fine. If I seem distracted, I don't mean to be. The best thing you can do is act normally. Anyway," I laughed, if only to disperse the solemn mood, "now is hardly the time for dreary portents! Let's have some optimistic ones instead. Please, talk to me about the future." I sounded like an obsequious child imploring an idolised teacher, I observed with derision. Damn it, I had to stop being so pathetic.

"I am no soothsayer, Francis," he said, softly ironic.

"Just – please, talk about your hopes for me. Regale me with visions of your utopia!"

"What is there to say? We have been through these 'perfect hypothetical world' discussions so many times..."

"Yes but now, on the brink of revolution, they are more relevant than ever before. There's no reason to be anxious. I want to hear you at your most idealistic. Imagine nothing is impossible!"

"Nothing _is _impossible," he countered. "If you'll excuse the clumsy double negative. Very well – the future. Where to begin?" This was a subject he adored: political theory. "In the future, there will be democracy – that much is certain – so the government will forever be accountable to the people. The state will take on a new role: to ensure that no-one is without that which is necessary to live. There will be no more of the wealthy robbing the poor of bread – though there may be some inequalities, for we will have to compromise initially with the profiteers. However, first and foremost will be the right to live in peace and prosperity – this shall never be compromised; it is the government's duty to ensure that nobody ever falls into poverty again, much less that they remain there."

Robespierre may not have been a Marxist before his time, but he was certainly an early Social Democrat. The spectre of Communism was presently nowhere near the horizon, but it would be the _Montagnards_ who would eventually create the foundation of left-wing philosophy. "With this will come the alteration of perspectives; this is integral," he continued. "To be poor will not be synonymous with degradation, but with _pride._ To survive for so long, in spite of all disadvantages, should be considered the height of honour. The working people will never be overlooked in favour of the wealthy." I nodded, rapt.

"Privileges of birth will be rendered obsolete," he said. "Never will wealth and status be gained by courtesy of being born to the right family; likewise, shame will never be transferred to the children of a criminal. Anyway, there will be little need for crime, as the government will ensure that nobody is desperate enough to turn to thievery. Life will be about who you become, not what you are born as – and whoever you are, the government has a duty to shield you from poverty and represent your needs, regardless of your character, or circumstances, or anything."

"How is all this to be funded?" I queried, though I knew the answer.

"Taxation on the rich. They, who have lived in so much luxury, cannot deny the poor the right to life – to refuse to contribute would be sheer robbery."

I rocked back on the chair, balancing it on two legs, leaning the back against the wall. The cold stone was somewhat soothing; so were Robespierre's words. "How did it come to this, Maxime?" I asked, with eyes wearily half-lidded. "You'd think I would have noticed all the inequality and the tyranny developing, yet I can't recall how it began... I wonder if it's always been there. Looking back, I think it has."

"You have been governed by those with a vested interest in maintaining the status quo," answered Robespierre. "Thus, the legacy continues. I would have thought that was obvious."

"Then how do we prevent it?" I asked, leaning forward.

"By ensuring that all statesmen are virtuous, self-sacrificing, unmotivated by greed." Anticipating my next question, he added: "The people will be the judge of that."

"Yes." We both smiled. _We are in agreement._

Noticing my posture, he shot me a reproachful look; I allowed the chair to rest on all four legs, accordingly. There was a lull in the conversation. This was a decent opportunity to bring up the Bastille, rather than allude to it, so we could compare what we knew of events. So I did, although it cost me the momentary calm I had achieved – needless to say, he knew little more than I. So there was silence, for a while. Together, we sat, gazing through the window, as though straining for a glimpse of flares; sounds of gunfire were discernable if you knew enough to listen. We were both powerless; and I think we stayed awake, sitting there, for the entire night. Nevertheless, I felt the apprehensiveness slowly recede, to be replaced by a growing flush of feverish excitement; I was positive that nearby, at the Bastille, we were winning once again.

**Present Day**

Eventually, they end up positioned thus: France is still writing at the desk; America has pulled an ornamental table up to the desk to sit on, and grabs each sheet of paper as soon as France has finished to read; that done, he tosses it in the general direction of England, who has pulled a chair to his ever-faithful corner, intermittently placing his head in his hands between scanning the loose sheets of paper. The overall effect is that of a somewhat demented line of production.

"Not that it matters now, but out of general curiosity - why, pray tell," England inquires, breaking the borderline companionable silence, "did you two show up here in the first place?" He drums his fingers on the edge of his armchair, creating a soft pattering noise, like an imitation of gunfire.

France pauses in his writing and America pauses in his reading long enough for both to give this issue some thought.

"To discuss EU stuff," says France, untruthfully, because he has a modicum of self preservation.

"To make fun of you about the election," says America, truthfully, because he does not.

England nods ruefully. "Brilliant," he mutters. "Oh – just for the record, Nick is now holding talks with the Labour party." He leans back, weary – France half expects him to rock the chair backwards, but hastily reminds himself that the present does not _always _echo the past.

"I thought he was trying to form a coalition with the toffs? The Conservatives, I mean," says America (France laughs softly; England sighs briefly in exasperation).

"He was," says England. "Now he is... not." The 'not' seems to denote complex political wrangling of the frustrating variety.

"Your governmental system is so _weird_." With this, America resumes his reading. "Why can't it be straightforward?" he adds, presumably in reference to the former statement, not directed towards what is written on the page. Although France can't be entirely sure.

"It's _meant _to be straightforward," replies England. "It's the voters who refuse to keep things simple. Collectively, that is. Short of autocracy, you can't get less complicated than a single plurality system."

"Well, it sounds pretty rubbish," decides America.

"It _is _'pretty rubbish'," France asserts.

"Don't think I haven't _considered_ autocracy..." England mutters.

"You don't even have a constitution!" adds America. France rolls his eyes. A well worn debate, this.

"Yes I do." England's tone borders on dangerous.

"Well. An ineffectual, unwritten one," admits America. _His _tone borders on the deliberately provocative.

"Yes, I recall Marat had a lot to say about the British constitution," says France, having come to the decision that he cannot ameliorate matters, so he may as well aggravate them.

"Or lack thereof," insists America.

"Not much of it good, either, from what I remember," France continues.

England clearly views this joint slur on his politics as a step too far. Consequently, he returns to a well worn (albeit more logical) line of argument. "Are you people ever going to leave me in _peace_? Actually – never mind! I don't know why I bother. Evidently no-one ever listens to me, anyway..." Here, he trails off; presumably having decided that guilt tripping might be an effective strategy against the two intruders.

"That's not fair!" splutters America, outraged, at a volume which causes France to wince. "I _pretend_ to listen all the _time_!"

"How touching. And here was me thinking you didn't care," says England, sardonically enough that France winces again.

"Of _course_ I – ...wait, what?" For a second, America is dumbfounded. Then, he recovers: "B-but anyway, what's the difference between pretending to listen and actually listening when it's not like I'm going to agree with you..." _und so weiter, _as Germany would say. _Ad nauseum, _as Ancient Rome would probably add.

France is unsure over whether to bang their heads together, or simply to laugh. It depends – what would maximise their indignation? He settles for the most patronising chuckle that he can muster. Then, because he tends to listen to his aforementioned modicum of self preservation, he returns to his writing before this can be queried.

However, England and America have dissolved into incessant bickering once more, which is beginning to become irritating. Certainly it is an unnecessary distraction. He says as much to England, who replies that it is his house and he can bicker incessantly with whomever he wants, _not _that he particularly wants to be bickering (or even communicating, for that matter) with America, incessantly or otherwise (just so that's established). France mutters in an offhand way that England and his house can go screw themselves. England says he's not sure a house can do that. France replies cheerily, if somewhat nonsensically, that nothing is impossible. If he'll excuse the double negative. England resumes his argument with America. France resumes writing. There is - if not companionable silence, then at least companionable commotion.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**

**Here's the next instalment – albeit after a reasonable amount of delay. Enjoy!**

**France**

The battle was over – for the Bastille, that is. Sadly, as it turned out, there were few prisoners to liberate. One of whom was mad, believing himself to be Julius Caesar. "Of course, that's all relative," I later remarked to Robespierre. "After all, on the throne is a man who believes himself to be God's representative on Earth and a woman who buys extravagant jewellery whilst the country starves. Is that not mad?" At any rate, the newspapers were jubilant – this was, after all, the demise of the very icon of autocracy. Seeing how Louis' life centred so firmly around tradition and decorum, how else could we force him to hear us but on a symbolic basis?

The next day, I trod the road to the Bastille (having left Robespierre at the National Convention meeting) with a vague desire to witness the result of so much conflict minuscompany. As I approached, the rubble on the roads increased and the path itself grew precarious – most of the paving stones, I noted, had been torn from the ground (ha! See how they undermine the very foundations of the past?) to construct the barricades. The residual smell of gunpowder clung to me, cloying and persistent.

The dull, aching dizziness had all but ebbed away, leaving my perception sharp, yet brittle as glass; at every sound, I felt ready to shatter. There was clarity, but it was fragile, much like the weather, which consisted of transient sunshine and unexpected gusts of wind. I felt as though I was on the cusp of some major shift; whether it signified sun or storm, I was unsure.

As the breeze toyed with my hair, I shivered. With greater foresight than I had realised at the time, I had taken the opportunity to don workmen's clothing.

(In accordance with that age-old staple of adventure novels, I had approached a young worker in the street and paid him to exchange clothes with me. To my amusement, we had both been wearing green cockades to show our support for a constitution – mine had been duly swapped for his markedly more frayed ribbon. It would not do to be seen in my usual garb; I had no fear for the youth, who would hardly be mistaken for an aristocrat, and would in any case have had the sense to disguise the clothes with dirt. I hoped he would be able to sell the various jewels adorning the outfit for a decent price.)

It certainly would not do for the nation to appear to side with the aristocracy – I was eager to renounce all of that, even in terms of dress. I resolved to purchase new, sober attire at the first opportunity. Well, perhaps not sober. Less expensive, at any rate. At least my current clothing was lighter – the heat had been growing unbearable.

I suppose these were the clothes he had worn in the cold, too. Like something out of my old dreams...

Still, all of this had an odd feel – I could not shake off the impression that I was play-acting, despite the fact that the gestures were all made in earnest. Mending my ways was going to take considerable effort. Hmm. Somehow I could not see myself as the ascetic; no, rather that everyone be able to enjoy material pleasures. They should not be the perks of the privileged few, certainly, but no need to abolish elegant clothing or rich food – simply let it become accessible to all.

I then remembered with a pang that whilst this maxim had its hypothetical merits, many people would be happy simply to have enough bread for a week – luxury did not enter the matter. Again, indignation and guilt coursed through me – how dare the rich shape society so that only a handful amongst millions may enjoy life to its full potential!

Well, let them try to withstand the inevitable backlash. The confines of a rigid social structure could not protect them, once seen for what they were: illusions conjured to perpetuate the status quo.

The previous day, after the winning of the Bastille, there had been tours open to the public – an invitation for people to marvel at the horrors within. The torture equipment. The cells. For a fortress with so very few prisoners, it was remarkably well stocked (and _racked, _for that matter).

Today, on the 16th, the building was being demolished, brick by brick. I stood at a distance, watching the group of 500 dismantle the Bastille. On the way there, I had entertained some notion of joining them, to literally take my own future into my own hands by physically seizing parts of this building, this horrific creation... however, I found I could not bring myself to disturb them. Why take action myself when the people were already taking charge?

Sometimes a nation takes an active role in events; sometimes we are nothing but slaves to those in power. This was neither; it astounded me. There was no need for leadership now, or if there were to be leaders, they would be elected of the people's own volition.

With the shifting of every shard of rubble, I felt liberated.

I knew that this was by no means the end. Oh, there were to be many more challenges on the way – I was well aware of _that_. I was equally aware of the number of people on both sides who had been killed during this venture. Revolution was an explosive process. To expect a bloodless victory was... unrealistic. This rotten, archaic regime had painfully deep roots. Yet if it was allowed to remain for much longer, like any disease, it would consume me. By that, of course, I mean that the suffering would continue. The starvation... the oppression... the poor left entirely without support; the idle rich without a care in the world. These hellish images, which may not resonate with such horror for the 'developed' nations amongst us now, constituted reality for me and my people at the time: a reality both sadistic and tyrannical.

This _must _be kept in mind.

I watched this relic of my past disappearing before me. This, I thought, was but a prequel: how glorious it would be to watch all other institutions of the monarchy dissolve similarly! But would we be forced to fight for every last building in the city?

Perhaps not. The people were with us; or, more appropriately, we were with the people. That mattered. That counted for everything. Such unity of purpose would ensure a speedy victory. Now to see how Louis and Antoinette would retaliate. I was jubilant, but still somewhat uneasy. Apprehensive was the word I had used, wasn't it? It was idiotic to imagine we had gone too far, though – the danger really lay in not going far enough. At this point, few wanted to dispense with monarchy altogether; they aimed for a democratic constitution. I, however, was beginning to see that monarchy was a festering symbol of this social disease which gripped me. Chained, enslaved – use whatever imagery you like – how could the people remain loyal to that which bound them? How does one attempt to reform a slave owner? To persuade a shackle to serve some other purpose?

**Present Day**

"So, for the sake of what's becoming tradition, I have to ask," grins America. Hands held up in mock surrender, in anticipation of attack: "How's the election going?"

England looks prepared to garrotte someone. Anyone. Nonetheless, he answers – albeit in clipped, succinct statements. "Nick is still talking with the Labour party. Brown is going to be axed either way. There's talk of a rainbow coalition." The last statement somehow undermines said clipped effect.

"_Rainbow _coalition?" America splutters in disbelief. He manages to stifle his laughter and maintain some composure. Gravely, he says: "Rainbows. Huh. OK. Tell me. Will there be unicorns too?"

"I'd imagine that both are equally illusory," France comments.

England's glare, if liquefied, could feasibly fuel a chemical warfare – yet one would imagine its use would immediately be prohibited, for reasons involving crimes against humanity.

"It just occurred to me," muses France, "that you've been here all this time-"

"- Oh, well _done, _frog. A stunning piece of observation."

"Silence, _stupide_ – I hadn't finished. If you've been here all along, how have you been receiving all this news of the talks between Clegg the Messianic, King Toff and 'Never a Frown' Brown? Magical scrying?"

To France's annoyance, instead of goading England about magic and fairies and such, America stares at the former pityingly, whilst England... grins.

"_France_. Stuck in the eighteenth century for good, are you?" America snickers.

"What?"

England pulls a mobile phone from his pocket and tosses it casually from side to side.

"Oh." France shakes his head as if to clear it. "Oh yes. Of course." For the first time that day, it is France rather than England who buries his head in his hands. Briefly. With, naturally, the utmost elegance and poise.

"And to think – you accuse _me _of living perpetually in the past," crows England.

France heaves a gusty sigh. Perhaps he has been reliving the events of 1789 a little too... vividly.

"What is it they say on the Internet?" says England. "'Epic fail'? 'Facepalm'? Both would suit this occasion."

America winces, heavily. "Never say that again," he admonishes England. "You were doing quite well up till now."

"Quiet, you."

America chuckles. "Let's face it – if France lives in the eighteenth century, you're forever in the sixteenth."

"And I suppose you are utterly up to date, by contrast?" inquires England, acidly.

"Of course," replies America, ingenuously, either oblivious to the sarcasm or, more likely, actively ignoring it. But then, with America, it is, as always, nearly impossible to tell. France retreats to his pen and paper instead.

**France**

Events after the fall of the Bastille were more chaotic than ever before. Nonetheless, it was accepted – even, eventually, by the king himself – that matters had moved from just sporadic bursts of rebellion to outright revolution. Lafeyette became Commander of the ever-expanding National Guard; Necker was reinstated; royal troops were withdrawn from Paris; Louis accepted a tricolour cockade. I'll admit, that last action reconciled me to the king somewhat – at the least, he had accepted the inevitable, and symbolically abandoned his absolute power. At the time, I almost admired him for that – nevertheless, though I could forgive him as a man, I could not sit easy with his existence as a monarch.

Meanwhile, mid-July saw the beginning of the 'Great Fear' – namely, countless urban revolts against feudalism. Even to walk in the streets became an overtly politicised action – for instance, to show support for the common cause (at the prompting of Desmoulins), one had to wear a green cockade, usually pinned to the hat. Naturally, my own headgear was adorned accordingly with the brightest of emerald ribbons.

The apprehensive aristocracy, rather than accept the new order, as the king had - by all appearances - done, began to immigrate to more conservative shores. They mostly uprooted to England, where those who cling perniciously to the status quo find company.

(Of course I jest, _Angleterre._ Nobody is more forward-thinking than you. Now please stop glaring; if I am turned to stone, it will somewhat hamper the writing of this tale.)

Amidst this turmoil, events were taking place in rapid succession. Complete social upheaval loomed – and I welcomed it with defiance.

**Present Day**

"But, _Angleterre," _remarks France, offhand, "this does raise the question, why aren't you actually sitting in on these talks? Don't tell me we're keeping you from them. If so, don't worry, you don't have to stay; America and I will entertain ourselves."

England almost guffaws. "You must think I'm deluded. Do you think I would ever leave you two here unsupervised? America would end up being molested. That, or I'd return home to find a pile of rubble and all of my citizens running riot, building barricades out of the remnants. Anyway, it's beside the point. I'm here because, comparatively speaking, I want to be. I'm sick of their _faces, _their _voices, _their _policies, _their _lack _of policies... and, above all, I'm tired of this bloody election that's managed to outstay its welcome by far. At this point, I'm almost _indifferent _as to who wins."

"So you'd be here moping even if we hadn't shown up?" summarises America.

"... That's about the long and short of it, yes."

"Ah, _mon petit chou_!" France waxes lyrical. "You would be here _languishing _all alone had we not intervened and rescued you from the depths of despair!"

"I don't _languish _– did you just call me a _cabbage_?"

"It was a term of endearment," France assures him. England's current expression looks somewhat less than endearing.

**France**

It was soon after the fall of the Bastille that Robespierre led me down the Rue Saint-Honere, where I was to become acquainted with yet another keystone in history; yet another piece of this familiar story slots into place. One of the most integral pieces, as I was later to realise. At the time, I was happy to go wherever the nearest revolutionary led me – at this point, no new ideology seemed barred to me.

Of course, I was quite fond of knowing at least vaguely in which direction I was to be led. "Maxime – not that I dislike your company, but where exactly are we going?"

"I am taking you to meet the Society of the Friends of the Constitution."

"Sounds intriguing. Although I've yet to meet a group with the audacity to call itself _enemies _of the constitution." Not in this current political climate, at any rate.

"It's a political organisation for National Assembly representatives," he elaborated. "Ones who – loosely, at any rate – share our beliefs. Friends of liberty and equality." Ah, the new political buzzwords. Rather than today's pathetic substitutes – _change, fairness _– we had the far more impressive _liberte, egalite et fraternite_. Words which resonated with the very essence of revolution. Even today, they retain the power to send chills down my spine; to turn my vision momentarily red.

"Will I be welcome, as a non-member of the Assembly?" I smirked, teasing.

"Don't be ridiculous. But, Francis – behave, will you?" Robespierre warned, with endearing sternness.

"Do I ever not?"

"Sometimes you poke fun at people, or try to shock them, for the fun of it I think. Promise me you will be friendly."

"I'm always _friendly,_" I protested. "And I never deride the things that matter."

"You are answering in generalities. A thoroughly bad sign," he noted, with an exasperated smile.

"You _began _with a generality, if it comes to that," I retorted, persistently.

Robespierre shook his head, as though shaking off the quasi-conversation. But then he smiled again. "Let us go."

I think that was the first time that he actively tried to shape my behaviour. In hindsight, it is easy to mark that as the beginning of... well, of what happened later. In reality, it was utterly harmless – after all, how often had I chastised him for being a prude? This was simply banter between good friends – and, as I have continually stressed, Robespierre was never a dictator. It is so dangerous to attribute superfluous meanings to small incidents simply because they fit in with the overall pattern. But enough of the defensive running commentary! I included this conversation only to illustrate what I loved about L'Incorruptible; namely, that his unwavering belief in the possibility of change was such that he could attempt to sway the behaviour of a nation, whose attitudes are shaped over centuries.

I have little to say for now on the Society of the Friends of the Constitution. Back then, it was comprised evenly of both radicals and moderates; I made some acquaintances; I behaved very well. I had been to various political clubs before with my other friends – and this particular society was yet to attain great significance or distinction. For now, suffice to say that we met in an old, _Jacobin_ monastery.

**Present Day**

"We do get the message," says England. "You've hammered it home sufficiently for even a nation of America's intellect to comprehend. Robespierre was not as villainous as history paints him, and all that. But you've yet to prove anything; we're nowhere _near _'93." America looks as though he is considering retaliation at the former affront, but France intervenes.

"If the events of the Terror are described out of context, we'll never get anywhere," he says. "What comes before is more important."

"Or perhaps you prefer reminiscing about a time in which all was happiness, liberty and light?"

Gaining animation, France rises from his seat at the desk, suddenly aware that he has not stirred for a number of hours. "Fine. If you want the short explanation. The revolution has been characterised by handfuls of caricatures, out-of-context garbage, cut-and-paste clichés, banal ironies... and downright inaccuracies. The myths: Marie Antoinette never said 'let them eat cake'; probably she knew too little about the outside situation to come up with so astute a policy. Doctor Guillotin was never guillotined himself. The caricatures: Danton and Robespierre were not diametrically opposed in character. Marat was not motivated by bitterness, or some sort of accumulated misanthropy, but by genuine solidarity for the poor. The Girondins were not moderate because they somehow predicted the Terror, but because they sided with the propertied classes. The context: yes, many were killed during the Terror, but nobody ever laments the greater loss of life under the _ancien regime _due to poverty, starvation and oppression – or remembers that it would have meant the reinstating of the monarchy had the Jacobins relented in '93. Also? Robespierre did not personally try and condemn every single individual executed." France has ample material to add to this list, but, upon reflection, concedes that he is doing little but ranting. Instead, he falls silent – if smouldering defiance can really be considered silence.

"History is what people make of it. Written by the victors and all that," comments England, gently, but firmly enough to convey his customary amount of scepticism. "Things are bound to get distorted." What he leaves unsaid is '_really, must you be so incessantly dramatic about this?'_ but then, after years of habitual verbal abuse, there are various barbs which can be taken for granted. France has always grudgingly admired England's ability to simply _imply _insults without troubling to voice them. Nevertheless, for England, the tone actually borders on sympathetic.

"So you think the Terror was necessary?" scoffs America.

France stares at America in disbelief (to which America shrugs). "Of course not! How could I when I lived through it? But for the Terror to be denoted as one of history's greatest atrocities is simply unjust. So many are willing to overlook or excuse the monstrosities committed in the name of kings – but should ordinary people take matters into their own hands, they will never be given a sympathetic hearing!"

America blinks at this further outburst. "... I get that. Sort of." Visibly, France relaxes. Slowly, he takes a seat once more.

"It boils down to fear, I suppose," he says, calmer now. "Today, there are few who fear monarchy – in fact, _Angleterre _is still unfathomably fond of his own – but an idealistic, revolutionary mob?" France's smile is piercing as direct sunlight. "_That_ is terrifying, no matter what the era." If sunlight ever managed to look so roguish. "Also – when things _do_ go wrong, people accentuate the bad and ignore the good altogether," he adds, as something of an afterthought.

"But there was a lot of good stuff mixed in with the bad stuff, right?" says America, tentatively feeling his way around the issue (recalling particularly the words of Jefferson on the matter, but also keeping Adams in mind). "Because –" here he gives a snuff of laughter, acknowledging the contradiction "- things always _are _complex." He realises that this entails agreeing with what England said earlier, albeit in a somewhat disjointed manner. "_Sometimes_," he stresses, lest England become aware of this.

"Sometimes, yes," France smiles back. "I suppose it's time to continue writing?"

England shrugs, with what seems to be feigned disinterest. "You may as well."

America peers thoughtfully at France through his glasses. Tilting his head slightly, so that they briefly catch the light (France thinks of the fire at the Festival of the Supreme Being) he says: "Yeah. Do."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N**

**Sile the Reader: Thanks for the review! For obvious reasons I couldn't message back, so I'll write the answer here! The French Revolution has been a pet obsession of mine since reading **_**Les Miserables**_** (and lurking in the fandom for a while)****a few years ago. I sort of taught myself about it (incidentally, I'd recommend **_**Fatal Purity **_**by Ruth Scurr and **_**Vive le Revolution **_**by Mark Steel, if anyone's interested), though one year of AS level Politics helped considerably. What fascinates me is that there is no clear answer with regards to the Revolution – yes, the Terror was awful, but the issue has been robbed of its complexity. What most people know is a caricature of the Revolution; they never remember the motivations behind the revolutionaries or, if known, they are made subject to derision. I think that France, having lived through the events, is irritated by this – although, incidentally, I feel ridiculously arrogant indicating that I know the truth about historical events, even through the medium of a character who **_**does**_**. Which is why this can be a little tricky to write sometimes.**

**... As I was writing the slave owner line, I did think **_**ooh, this will strike a chord with America**_**. I think I might have neglected him a little, though, mostly owing to my British education and subsequent lack of familiarity (aside from what I've read here and there) of American history. Hopefully I can rectify that.**

**So, enjoy this next instalment!**

**Present Day**

"One question that has been perplexing me, _Angleterre_: why _are_ you still here?" asks France, head propped up quizzically with one hand. "Listening to me, I mean?"

"Besides this being my house?" England says, exasperated. France gives a dismissive wave of the hand to that particular trifle. "I told you. I'm sick of this election and everything to do with it."

"Yes, but there are plenty of other rooms in the house. You could easily move, but you do not because you are interested in what I have to say. I am pleased, of course, but. _Pourquoi?"_

England reflects. "Morbid fascination," he eventually decides. "The inherent interest provoked by the birth of a monster."

"Tch." France knows contradicting him is futile. Instead, he screws up a piece of paper and throws it idly at England's head. To his annoyance, it misses. England hardly bothers to dodge. "_You _are a cynic," France informs him.

"Not, strictly speaking, an insult. Do try harder, frog."

"Why bother with words when my very presence appears to irritate you?" grins France. "What about you, _Amerique_? Why stay and read?" he asks, jauntily, because America looks strangely subdued.

"Yes, why?" echoes England. "It's not as though you're in need of lessons on how to conduct a rebellion."

"To find out why you looked so happy back then," America says to France, quietly. "Well, he _did_," he asserts louder, addressing England. "I mean, I _know_ why. Revolution does that; it's awesome. Like you're becoming someone new, but also you're more yourself than ever. Like you're cutting out everything that wasn't really you."

"What, you mean the British?" says England, looking hurt.

America almost looks guilty for that particular barb. "It's nice to remember, is all," he shrugs. Then grins. "Well, the monarchy _certainly _wasn't me!"

"You _remember_ every year already – what's the bloody Fourth of July for?" says England. "And _you_, frog – you have your wretched Bastille Day. If that's not keeping the memory of the event alive, I don't know what is. Would someone tell me why nations carry around so much bloody _baggage_? No, don't laugh at me, you two; I know I'm one to talk, but..." with this, he seems to give up on whatever he was attempting expressing. The raucous mirth of France and America might have been something to do with this. "Well, anyway, your turn, France. Why stay here? Yes, you've given us the lecture, but what exactly do you intend to _achieve_ by this apologia?"

"_Verite_," smiles France. "Nothing more solid than that. I don't pretend to know everything, but the revolutionaries deserve better than a few cynical British dismissals. I suppose the upshot is that the Revolution has been simplified; I was there and I know it was more complicated. That's what I'm trying to show, if nothing else. I think." If he is honest, it was more of a motiveless impulse to begin with. But it is easy to attach meanings in retrospect...!

England nods, curtly. "You blame me alone for that?" He laughs, with not a tinge of mirth. "You think _America _understands?"

America looks affronted. "I understand what he means! I had a revolution!"

"So I recall," says England, drily, not without some bitterness. "But not all revolutions are similar in character."

France gives this serious consideration. Don't all revolutions have the same spirit, at core? Yes: the desperate desire for change. Is that enough to say that they all contain the same ideas? Certainly not. America understands independence and has the _institution _of democracy down to an art in theory... but the _actions_ of government never encountered such a monumental shift in America as they did in France, or, at any rate, not the _same_ shift. He wonders if America understands how the ideas of the left wing in the Revolution were the precursors to Socialism. Thinking about it, their revolutions followed very different lines. Strictly speaking, France reminds himself, his own failed – but then, it was always more ambitious.

America wants to understand, but cannot entirely. England, France decides, understands entirely more than he wants to. That is not to say that he agrees – only that he once, almost, did.

"You look pensive, America," says France. Uncharacteristically so.

"Hmm? Yeah. Just thinking about..." he glances down at the sheet of paper he is holding – one of the earlier pages of France's narrative.

France ponders, then realises. "The slave owner line?"

America colours, defensively.

"Perhaps that was uncalled for," France murmurs. "A Rousseau allusion, nothing more, I promise. But I apologise nonetheless."

"It's just that – I _did _reform the slave owners. Yeah, I know, the racism continued for a while, but..."

"_Continues, _for that matter," adds England.

"That's not fair! Nothing will ever be perfect, but I try to treat everyone equally!" Ah, thinks France, but there lies the difference. America never strove for economic equality – nor thought about it, too much. Nor did France, but the Revolution addressed it to a far greater degree. "What I mean is – the slave owners were people too. Misguided, but not machines! They weren't expendable, is what I mean. They could be changed."

France realises where this is going. "You pity the monarchs? You think I should have remembered their humanity?"

"Yes!" replies America, eagerly. Ah, he is always so certain. Looking at him, bright-eyed and optimistic, you forget that anyone could ever think any different. Then England: surly and sardonic, curled up in the armchair. France feels as though he is caught in between the personifications of idealism and cynicism. Funny how that would be wholly inaccurate.

He remembers the challenge. Leaning back resignedly, he wonders how to phrase his answer. He recalls Hugo's argument on the matter. "Do you pity them more than the poor?"

"What does that matter? Pity is pity."

France sighs. "True, they were victims of society. They all were – aristocracy, bourgeoisie and proletariat alike. Still, forgive me if I feel more for the poor, consigned to their ignominious roles than I do the rich who, though admittedly confined by society, were treated well by their jailors. Trapped – but in a life of luxury! By comparison, they had little cause to complain. Yet when discussing the revolution, inevitably more sympathy will be expressed for the royals and the aristocrats who were executed then for the working class who were continually abused. That indicates something severely skewed."

"What are you looking at _me _for, frog?" asks England, wearily.

"But back to the original point," says France, ignoring England, who, indeed, he had been staring at pointedly. "I was considerably more... unkind, back then. So were we all, really. Don't you two _remember _the eighteenth century?" Probably the wrong question. America remembers the latter part of the eighteenth century with the greatest nostalgia. He tries again. "_Amerique. _When deciding how to deal with a murderer, you do not ask the victim's family. Of _course _they will want them killed – probably in the most brutal way possible. That does not mean that it is just or humane to do so – far from it. Likewise, it was useless asking me or my people what to do with the monarchs. Our judgement was clouded by the exploitation we had suffered." America looks torn; too late, France remembers that a handful of his states still support the death penalty. Perhaps not the wisest analogy, then. He settles for simple comparison. "You never _had _an American king left over to deal with," he finishes, more than a little peevishly.

**France**

Forgive me; I allowed myself to become sidetracked before. Now is not the time to lecture about events which happened later in this story – I should know by now that chronology is key. We therefore return to the point where the National Assembly takes charge once more.

With Bailly, President of the National Assembly made mayor of Paris, the former organisation was renamed the National Constituent Assembly and became my de facto government. They wasted no time in setting about reversing the wrongs of the monarchy the first priority being, of course, a working constitution.

The debate over what to include in our Constitution thus began – and what a frenzy it provoked! Admittedly, I have America to thank here – his own Constitution served as a welcome guideline. We had but one fixed conviction between us: that all citizens were to be acknowledged as having natural, universal rights, tribute to that siren word, _egalite_. No longer would principles be the sole property of philosophers – granted, we had them to thank and I do not seek to diminish the calling. However, their thoughts were no longer to be locked in some lofty shrine to be admired only from afar; we were determined to liberate and put them to use. When I say _we, _I am convinced that the majority of the country was behind us. Certainly I, as the country's embodiment, gave my full approval.

On the fourth, the August Decrees were issued, formally abolishing feudalism. I exaggerate not an ounce when I state that there were people on the street who wept for joy. Did my eyes swim accordingly? I scarcely recall whether they did or not. I was far to pre-occupied with keeping track of the continuous flurry of political activity; it was as though I was caught in some benevolent whirlwind, disorientated yet delighted.

Tithes to the church were ended – finally, its stranglehold on the poor (for which there was no small amount of justifiable resentment) was eased. Various hereditary privileges were eradicated – taxation, for instance, would no longer have conditions favourable only to the wealthy. The trade guilds were thoroughly reformed, to the benefit of the workers. Additionally, there was to be no more purchasing of positions in public office. All of this achieved in one wave of legislation...

Robespierre in particular was gaining a reputation for radicalism. I felt a surge of pride every time he stood to speak in the Assembly hall, advocating religious tolerance or unlimited freedom of the press. He was especially adamant that those in executive office must be held accountable to the people, in case of any abuse of power. In a time where today's politically self-evident principles shone fiery and new, he was a veritable lantern. Yet his mode of speaking was assiduously composed. He could display passion of principle at heart, but he was meticulous in keeping every word of his speeches rational, not tempered by emotion. Here, I would often admonish him. A typical incident:

"Emotion is nothing to shy away from, my friend. Your comments today bordered on the clinical." He seemed taken aback. "Yet, as always, no-one could deny it was a sound argument," I amended, truthfully.

"You would scarcely believe how nervous I was," he confided, softly.

"After all this time, speeches still scare you? I'm surprised."

"I suppose your shock indicates it was not noticeable, at least," he said, amused.

From then on, I studied him more carefully in the Assembly. Indeed, it was not difficult to guess that his dignified veneer concealed self-consciousness, although the former was deliberate rather than merely protective. Furthermore, he seemed bashful of his heavy Artois accent. How had I failed to observe this before? I suppose I had idealised him, imagining him impervious to anything, stage fright in particular!

"Public speaking is nothing!" I later chided. "_Lack_ of an audience is far more terrifying."

"_You,_" he replied, "have had centuries in which to practice."

(Did you just say something, England? Something to the tune of '_To say nothing of your being an inveterate attention whore'_¸ perchance? I must confess I am at a loss as to your meaning.)

I'll admit, not everyone was in complete accord – far from it. The constitutional debates could be nigh interminable, given to prolonged disputes over minute legal details. I was amused to see Mirabeau and the markedly more radical Abbe Sieyes walking together, their political differences faded to equal looks of despondency. Whilst Mirabeau bemoaned the overthrow of the monarchy (here, I raised a sceptical eyebrow), Sieyes lamented the abolition of tithes, which he believed would bankrupt the church at the landowners' benefit. Friend to the poor, yet I suppose a clergyman at heart! I scarcely paused to laugh at the spectacle of both men looking miserable and yet equally reproachful of each other, before bounding away to meet my friends at the Breton Club – this being the more succinct title for the Society of the Friends of the Constitution.

Note that the aforementioned club was not yet the left-wing forerunner of later years. Its high subscription fees ensured that its members were either bourgeois or at least economically well off. Hence, I found its moderation tiring, budding radical that I was, although I sought the company of some individual members.

Granted, I was apt to succumb to tedium during the drier moments at the National Assembly, where arguments over minutiae could last hours. I would often amuse myself by attempting to catch the eye of any of the more attractive delegates, with perhaps limited success. If all else failed, I would throw myself into the discussion with ridiculous abandon, choosing my position at random and arguing vehemently over bagatelles in shameless parody. Few seemed to realise I was anything but serious, and I often found myself with a handful of firm supporters, much to my amusement. Strictly speaking, this was not the wisest of pranks, but I could hardly help stirring things up a little further. It was the larger, all-encompassing issues that interested me – the rights of the individual in particular, to say nothing of the welfare of the collective.

I was to be vindicated in that respect. _The Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen _was on its way to fruition. Perhaps the greatest achievement of the revolution thus far.

**Present Day**

"France, you troll," laughs America.

"I'm surprised they let you participate in the debates at all. You really took your own constitution so lightly?" says England, amused in spite of himself.

"Of course not," demurs France. "I merely worked to keep the debates lively. And that, they were." Unable to resist the urge to seek out England's hang-ups and poke them with a stick, he adds: "Believe me, _Angleterre, _they were nothing like the infantile squabbling of that children's playground you term Parliament!"

"The legislation gets passed regardless," says England, tiredly.

"Amidst continual, tiresome political point scoring," says France.

"We all know politicians can be arrogant bastards at times; none of us are immune to that," says England, dismissively.

"You must be careful what you say, _cher – _you should check that your microphone is not on," says France, gleefully aware that this comment is probably below the belt and will undoubtedly herald an explosion.

"As if none of your idiots ever made equally asinine blunders!" England blows up, right on cue.

"Geez, France," mutters America. "If there are buttons to press, you sure _press _them."

"You, little _Amerique, _are simply jealous that you were not the first to make a Bigot-gate joke."

"Might I remind you, America, of where the term 'so-and-so-gate' originates!" England snarls.

America rolls his eyes. "So, how's the –"

"_Swimmingly,_" England answers, with biting sarcasm. "The election is going _swimmingly_. Yes, the Conservatives and Labour have decided to form a coalition, you see. They've realised that, despite superficial differences in policy, they essentially stand for the same, tedious values and, given that this whole election process is a cynical ploy to maintain the status quo, with two equally ineffectual parties in permanent and practically alternating ascendance, they may as well at last be open about it. Besides... think of the overwhelming Parliamentary majority!"

"Wait. What. Whoa. Really?" America asks in succession, stunned.

"No, America. No, not really," says England, almost pityingly. "Unsurprisingly, nothing substantial has happened since you last asked. If there's one thing I hate, it is not knowing where I stand!" This, thinks France, is possibly why England never had a lasting revolution. With all the initial uncertainty, he would not have lasted a day.

"Oh shit. He's cracked," says America to France. Then, addressing England: "You know, today is the first time you've actually made fun of your politicians rather than getting all defensive."

"What do you think I've been doing this whole election?" bristles England. "Scratch that – what do you think I've been doing for centuries? I _invented _self-deprecation, idiot. Well, that and treason. And the gibbet. And... carrot cake." He is, France notes with reassurance, beginning to drop the despairing edge and revert back to his customary aggressively sardonic demeanour. With perhaps a bit of stumbling with regards to that last sentence, but nobody is perfect and he _has _been traumatised by this absurd election.

"All right," says England. "The real news is that, no matter what happens, Brown's head is on the line. Oh God, tell me I did not just use that phrase... well, regardless, in order for Labour to make a deal with the Liberal Democrats, he'll have to resign as Labour leader. Clegg despises him with all the ferocity of an enraged hamster."

"So you're definitely getting a new Prime Minister," says America. "Hey, that's pretty exciting!"

"Yes, I am agog with breathless anticipation."

**France**

"Maxime!" I hurried down the street to catch up with my friend. "I was just reading the _Courier Francais_! You were mentioned."

"Oh?" he smiled, knowing what I was referring to.

"They complimented you as far as to spell your name correctly! That, considering previous gems such as 'Robertspiere' and 'Robesperre', is worth a thousand acclamations."

"Thank you," said Robespierre, drily.

"But, seriously, you deserve more than faint praise," I said. "You of all people have tried the utmost to steer the National Assembly in a progressive direction."

"Thank you," he said, sincerely. There was another thing: I could praise him as a friend rather than a country; he was never overwhelmed by me or by who I was. It was refreshing, I suppose.

"You know, people are beginning to worry about mob violence," I said, as we trailed away towards a nearby coffee shop. "Lafeyette is instructing the National Guard to break up protests." I tried to balance on the edge of the pavement as I walked – Robespierre moved sedately a little behind me. "Are you worried?" I asked. "I'm not worried. I am ecstatic!" For a second, I began to lose my balance, but managed to teeter back into place. "I don't wish to stem the tide of rebellion or to curb the crowd... It's been – oh – " here I stumbled, but regained my balance in an instant. " – ahaha, it's been a long time coming. I, for one, feel like venting. Why deny the people a chance to participate? Maxime, Maxime, I am _free _and you were mentioned in the _Courier Francais _and all will soon be truly _excellent_!"

"You are irrepressible," he smiled.

"In every sense of the word; I survived repression, did I not?"

"True. In answer to your question – no, I am not worried," he said. "I feel the same as you. It was the work of the crowd that won the revolution – they need not be restrained."

"Ah, we are in –"

" – Agreement, yes." I felt ready to burst with happiness and impatience. "Events _should _be in the hands of the people, government also. They were right to take action at the Bastille."

"Of course. It felt as though I saw the spirit of the revolution there, as something almost tangible."

"As did I." He gave a wry chuckle. "You thought I was meeting with my colleagues when they demolished the building, didn't you? The truth is I could not tear myself away from the Bastille. I saw you watching also, but could not bring myself to disturb you - your face was alight with the fervour of a thousand revolutionary throngs!"

"And just think what a message it will send around the world!" I said, relishing the thought. "We are to take the world by a storm. It's about time I emerged from this drudgery to startle them all afresh!" And, oh, what a clamour it was to cause – consider it the equivalent of dropping a chandelier on the international stage...

Entering the cafe, we encountered Danton and Desmoulins drinking coffee together.

"I just caught sight of the _Courier Francais, _Maxime," said Desmoulins, tapping him on the shoulder with a rolled up copy of the aforementioned paper. "Congratulations. The upshot is that the _Courier _considers you a reasonable character, quite incapable of falling victim to the current excess of most unseemly emotion that apparently abounds in the Assembly. High praise indeed, to be considered by the _Courier _a most rational creature!"

"And name spelled correctly at that!" added Danton.

"Who on earth could ask for more?" deadpanned Robespierre.

We joined their table and began to talk of the constitutional debates – Desmoulins, who was not a deputy, was particularly eager for news. Oddly, the talk turned to Robespierre; we began attempting to dissect his character, much to his chagrin.

"It can't be said that he doesn't live up to his own standards," I remarked. "I imagine Maxime strives to embody his vision of the perfect statesman, in order to be fit to serve his country." I said this, though with mock grandeur (as is my custom), quite sincerely.

"Perhaps his country wishes it were otherwise," drawled Desmoulins.

"Ah, but Maxime is thoroughly beyond temptation," I smiled back. "It is, at times, quite insufferable. Still – nothing could move him to betray his country or the people. Gentlemen – allow me to introduce the man who cannot be bribed!"

"Surely there must be a weakness," said Danton. "Everyone has a weakness."

"Not he," I asserted. "No weakness." Robespierre coloured at this, but looked annoyed at all the fuss. I believe he was secretly pleased at my admission.

"Money," suggested Desmoulins.

"He would never be swayed by monetary bribes," I answered. "Not when there are so many who get by on so little."

"Status, then."

"Ah, but he would never forgive himself – having accepted a bribe of power, he would feel himself to be quite unworthy of his position."

"Lust," said Danton.

"What, Maxime? Why, he cares little for sensual bribes – be it women or, indeed, men. He substitutes comradeship for love and virtue for lust."

The others considered. "Orange tart," suggested Desmoulins, triumphantly.

"Ah, there you have hit on his Achilles' heel!" I laughed. Robespierre's fondness for fruit tart was something of a guilty pleasure for him, a fact that was well known amongst his friends. It goes without saying that this was the source of much teasing, in light of his otherwise flawless asceticism. "The only bribe by which he may be persuaded to abandon his principles!"

Later, I would learn that Robespierre did indeed possess a second weakness, which masqueraded as strength: namely, a failure to forgive. Yet currently, I barely perceived that particular cloud on the horizon, transparent, distant thing that it was. Later I would long for the days in which confectionary was his only pitfall. Today, however, a new nickname was born – one which later managed to achieve some historical significance.

"In all seriousness," I declared, "I do not believe that anything would induce him to forsake the poor. Truly, he is beyond all the petty vices to which we mere mortals succumb to!"

"You're _not _mortal," Robespierre pointed out, quietly.

"I discount myself, as I am the _model _of all that is virtuous." This prompted loud guffaws from Danton and Desmoulins. "All right – so perhaps _you _are _my _models," I allowed, addressing all of them.

"You're right, though," said Desmoulins. "Maxime is beyond corruption."

"The Incorruptible One," said Danton, gesturing grandly to Robespierre.

"No titles," said the latter, pointedly.

"True; we will abolish all rank," said Desmoulins. "I'm afraid you must remain 'Maxime' – and mortal."

Nevertheless, it stuck; I mentioned it at the Breton Club, and its members were quick to adopt it. To Robespierre's professed indifference – and, I believe, also to his not-so-secret delight – he was always addressed as _L'Incorruptible._


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N**

**Just another fma fan and Fushigiyoru: Thank you so much for your wonderful reviews! Seriously, I'm bowled over. I'm so glad that you've enjoyed reading this fic!**

**OK, this chapter was exceptionally difficult to write. From what I can tell, every single history book has a different account of the women's march on Versailles. Nobody can agree on what happened – looking at some, you'd think you were reading a description of two separate events... So, overall, no-one seems to be able to tell exactly how events transpired. Therefore, I've tried to make this as accurate as possible, but it's been tricky. Eventually, I decided to use Ruth Scurr's account as my main source. Feel free to tell me if I've got something horrendously wrong!**

**VERY IMPORTANT: With England's letter, I tried to add strikes through some of the text, but the format on this site won't let me. So... if you could just pretend that _(any text like this)_ is crossed out, that'd be great! Sorry about that.**

**France**

I have never been one for caution. England may stand obstinately by his tedious brand of evolutionary social progress that moves, if at all, at a glacial pace. I could never be so timid. When I embrace change, I do so wholly and irrevocably. Why waste so much time scanning the terrain for rough ground with caution bordering on paranoia? Instead, for better or for worse, I will always dash headlong into rebellion, insurrection or revolution. My life has always been fast-paced and I have no desire for this to alter. England may tread the sedate path to social progress if he wishes, but should be careful he does not hesitate or stumble – that is, if he has not already. As for America – well, his _unique _mentality has never ceased to startle me, but he and I are perhaps twins in the way that we take history at a running pace, direction notwithstanding.

You think I might tire too soon and collapse? Impossible. I never do.

But I have little idea of why I ruminate so incessantly over my own character. I lack the time for such trifles, and I believe my audience lacks the patience. The story must progress!

(Self-interrogation is, I suppose, irresistible. But enough; England looks infuriated by the delay and I fear strangulation.)

Ah, the Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen! Sneer all you want, call it words and words alone; it was a source of pride to me and my people. It was a statement of intent – declaring every citizen equal, every citizen _human. _This was no trifle. Only those who have, to all intents and purposes, never had their humanity acknowledged, much less acted upon, can understand what it is to have it restored. August was a month of destruction and creation: boundaries were smashed, lines redrawn. If the Revolution was volatile fire, the Declaration was a beacon. It was distributed over the country – and beyond, illuminating not only within my own borders, but spreading into the domain of others.

Ha! I had been correct to predict a stir. My evidence? A letter, received around the time, from one Arthur Kirkland...

_Well, Frog,_

_You have certainly outdone yourself with this latest escapade. I'll admit to being slightly impressed. _

_You are _insane_, you do realise?__ (__Nonetheless, your particular brand of insanity is rather)_

_You are more of a fool than I thought if you imagine you will get away with this; I know you are no such thing, although you _are _an idiot. Nevertheless, to attempt what has never been achieved before in a country of our status is quite brave, I'll give you that. I wonder if you will not end up paving the way for the rest of us...? That is to say, I am intrigued by the events of these past few months. Do not take this in any way other than the spirit in which it was meant – rest assured, I still despise you. That does not interfere, however, with my (__sincere) (__heartfelt)__ admiration for what you have achieved._

_Tread carefully. You are on unfamiliar ground – that much is certain. I look to future developments with keen interest._

_England_

_(P.S. Were you actually there when the Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen was drawn up? What was it like? Who was the principle author, if anyone? What was discussed? It must have been... bliss, to be there.)_

_(P.P.S. And the fall of the Bastille – what did it feel like?)_

_P.P.P.S. Kindly ignore the above._

Well! High praise indeed, if one is to take into account the contents of previous missives sent to me from England. I replied at once.

_Cher Angleterre,_

_Petit, I am touched by your concern for my safety (as I have chosen to interpret as the 'spirit' of your letter), yet delighted by your approval, expertly veiled as it was. I have given your people quite a shock, no? A few of them condemn me, yet an astonishing amount of them have been imbued with revolutionary fervour, or so I hear. I wonder – to which category do you belong...? _

_Rest assured that I desire nothing more than to pave the way over uncertain ground for the more timid amongst you. That you are intrigued enough to consider following is your greatest compliment yet. However, if you are resolute in this intent, I beg of you _not_ to tread carefully. Your brief stint as the progressive corner of Europe is at an end, and one does not conduct a revolution on caution alone, my dear. _

_In answer to your (half-voiced) questions, these past few months have hardly been bliss – that being said, they have been the most thrilling I have experienced in centuries. The debates have been thorough and often inspiring. Not only was I there; I participated. Oh, Angleterre, you have no idea how wonderful it is to have a voice once more! I have never felt closer to my people. That is my answer to your second question in a nutshell; I feel lighter and freer than ever. _

_As for the rest - you need not worry on any account; it goes without saying that I still despise you with heartfelt sincerity. _

_I remain, your most ardent of enemies,_

_France_

**Present Day**

"Lies, bloody lies and exaggeration!" shouts England, thumping his fist against France's chair with force.

"Ouch," says France, mildly.

"Ow," England agrees, nursing his hand. Then he remembers that he is supposed to be livid. "I never wrote anything of the sort! _Particularly _not the – the crossings out! I never sent you any letters at all! Anyway, even if I did, do you really expect us to believe that you remember it verbatim?"

France turns to face him. "_Angleterre, _you of all people should know that we nations possess the most excellent of memories. Nevertheless, if you believe there may be inaccuracies, I can ask someone back at home to post the letters to us; I still have them, as I preserve all of my past correspondence."

England bridles, then stills. "... All right. Come to think of it, I do recall sending you... some... letters. Now that you mention it. Thinking back... yes, er, that was the. Phrasing. I used." He clears his throat. "It seems to be in order. Accuracy-wise, that is." Luckily, he does not choose to call France's bluff (France lost those letters centuries ago), which indicates that France's memory is at least tolerably precise.

"It also occurs to me that no-one who wishes their crossings out to be ignored puts merely one line through them," says France, thoughtfully.

"_Don't _push your luck, frog," says England, flushing. France can almost swear that he then mutters: "Besides, there were meant to be _two _lines through 'heartfelt'."

**France**

By September, I knew that Louis was going to be the proverbial thorn in my side. The National Assembly, reluctant to sever all ties with the monarchy, had granted him a veto on legislation. Unsurprisingly, he used it. He refused to recognise both the August Decrees and the Declaration. I was concerned – outraged, certainly – but not overly so. We had defeated him in a multitude of ways, ranging from the momentous to the innocuous; he had no hope of regaining any ground.

On the 1st October, he held a banquet in honour of the arrival of the Flanders Regiment in Versailles. This had long been tradition – however, it was used as an excuse for an excess of royalist sentiment: the soldiers destroyed their red and blue cockades in favour of white lilies symbolising the Bourbon dynasty; everyone was spectacularly drunk; insults to the National Assembly were bandied about left, right and centre. Upon hearing the rumours, I could imagine it vividly – a storm of desperate merriment, borne of the insurmountable desire to command a veritable orchestra of violins, while Rome lies already in ashes. I recognised that instinct all too well; defeated, I would have done exactly the same.

(I lamented that wretched _empathy _we nations seem to be burdened with.)

Unrest was mounting once more, exacerbated not only by the arrogance of the royalists, but by the fact that the price of bread was beginning to rise rather dramatically; this had huge significance for people who struggled to afford food at its usual price.

On the fourth of October, Paris found its bakeries bereft of bread.

Upon awakening on the fifth, I was greeted by the loud chimes of the Sainte-Marguerite tocsin and the worst hunger pangs I had ever felt outside of my nightmares. To the extent that I feared I had been stabbed in my sleep.

Throughout Paris, the poor were undergoing a similar experience. The city simply had no bread in its bakeries. Leaning out of the window (I had acquired a modest lodging in the Faubourg Saint Antoine, in an effort to escape the Palace), I saw masses upon masses of people, mostly women, grouped in the streets, cursing the lack of bread and verbally attacking the aristocracy and all bakers with alacrity.

After dressing with haste, I skittered down the stairs to join them – perhaps hundreds of ordinary fishwives, stall-holders, workers, prostitutes – even an incongruous handful of bourgeois women - moving in a definite direction. I approached the nearest: a young woman who appeared to be in her early twenties. "Pardon me. Where are they going, _Citoyenne_?"

"To Versailles!" she cried, with a kind of savage joy. "To see the royals. To demand bread!"I noted how painfully thin she was – the result of years of labour; years at the mercy of a thousand social storms. Yet her face was alight with vehement rebellion – possibly the mirror of mine, as I realised with slow satisfaction that I was going to join them.

Well, of course I was.

The National Convention had granted these people their rights, but they had not yet managed to save them. So yes, we were to take action once more; this time, I would be in the midst of it all.

Walking. All the way from Paris to Versailles. Oh, my people – was nothing impossible for them? I felt a violent wave of fondness for them lurch through me, underfed, irate wretches that they were.

I had heard a rumour that a baker had been murdered by the mob of protesters. I regret to say that it slipped my mind soon after I had dismissed it as exaggeration, which sadly it was not.

The march was a considerable distance. We had cannons, pikes, pitchforks and swords to carry – a vast array of weapons, ranging from the conventional to the makeshift. However, most of us did not seem to be weary, if angry yells and anti-monarchy songs were anything to judge by. Having said that, not everyone in the crowd was opposed to the monarchy – far from it. I began talking to some of the marchers in the immediate vicinity – there was Jeanne, Louise, Julie, Eugenie - including the girl I had initially questioned: Amelie, she was called.

"My dear, let us call this demonstration what it is: an act of resistance against the crown," I said, loudly enough to attract nearby yells of both assent and dissent, equally enthusiastic. "Do you really expect the king to give you bread? He and his immediate circle, from what I have heard, are the ones who are hoarding it in the first place." True enough, in that the upper class was never short of food; however, I had allowed myself to be somewhat carried away by an atmosphere of constant rumour, where anyone was suspected of keeping grain for themselves.

She shook her head, vehemently. "It's not the king," she insisted. "He loves his people. He loves _us._" I refrained from remarking _he loves himself; he barely acknowledges your existence, much less cares_. There was something almost touching in her faith, deluded as I believed her to be. "It's his ministers," she said, her face darkening. "They're to blame. Them and that Austrian bitch, his wife." _Loud _yells of assent following that statement. Marie Antoinette seemed universally despised, from what I could tell. Hearing some of their comments, I found myself hating her, too, although I reminded myself that she was a scapegoat at best.

I was faced with a problematic situation here; would it be best to agree with Amelie, or try to argue with her? Was hope better than hate, no matter how misguided? If she needed an idol, it occurred to me that she could choose far better than Louis – any of Robespierre's circle, for example. Then, it struck me that the last thing this girl – any of these people – needed was another idol. Feeling nostalgia brush against me as I spoke, I settled for: "I don't think it's a good idea to expect much from kings. Or king-figures. They always disappoint. It's best not to rely on one person for the answer."

She looked at me, with an expression that was too piercing to be anguished, too steady to be ingenuous. "Talking about it like this – that's one thing. Things happening – that's another. In the meantime... how are we meant to get by?"

**Present Day**

"I hate to bring this up," says America, "but aren't you guys starving?"

Both England and France turn to face him. England blinks. "Oh. Food. I'd forgotten about that."

"I _hate _it when people forget to eat," America fumes. "You guys didn't even eat while I was gone? Seriously? How long has it even been?"

"Just don't, America," England warns. "You'll remind me of everything I've been trying to repress. It's the 9th today. Do you realise what that means?"

"You've gone for _three days _without food?"

"I've gone for three days without a _government_, you twit. And... all right, maybe a day without food."

"Oh my God," says America, seriously. "All right, we've got a problem here."

"Never was a truer word spoken from the mouth of a moron," mutters England. "Though what _your _problem is has been a mystery to me for centuries."

"Food," America announces, "is a sensitive subject. Inevitably, we're going to end up in an epic fight over who gets to cook, who's the worst or best cook out of all of us, who undercooks their meat, who carbonises it – and eventually someone is going to end up with a plate of their own half-burned scones thrown in their face."

France nods. He, for one, has been looking forward to doing the throwing.

"So," America continues, in his best OK-this-is-me-being-_diplomatic_ voice, "I've decided on the best possible compromise."

France glances at England. Sure enough, he is looking more than prepared to explode into a lengthy rant at the first mention of the word _hamburgers_. France is equally prepared to sit back and watch the two bicker, occasionally chipping in with suitably flippant comments. After all, writing can become tiring; he needs a break.

"I say," says America, "we order pizza."

Silence descends, with all the grace of an aeronautical cow. France waits patiently for England to begin a (hastily amended) lecture on America's ridiculous eating habits.

Any second now.

Hilarious chaos pending, in three... two...

"All right, then," says England, eventually. Wait. What?

America looks almost as dumbfounded as France feels. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Oh! Great! France?"

"_Merde..._"

**France**

We arrived at Versailles in the evening, having acquired a _de facto _leader: Stanislas Maillard, hailed as 'Captain of the Bastille Volunteers' - one of the key players in the storming of the Bastille. At this point, the marchers must have been exhausted – frequently, we had slowed to gather more members, adding hours on to an already lengthy walk. Naturally, I would normally have undertaken this task with the utmost ease – thankfully, countries do not tire easily - but I was weakened by the odd ghost of hunger that afflicted me. But although our strength was sapped, we had lost nothing in terms of resolve – if anything, we were more determined than ever, ceaselessly yelling, singing, until we were hoarse, filling every moment of silence as though it would help us break out of our constraints.

We reached the entrance to the National Assembly. Quickly, we selected twelve volunteers to act as delegates, with Maillard at the head. Plus me. The history books never seem to count me, though. Amelie was one of the chosen; I stayed close to her, protectively.

We burst through the doors; what ensued was chaos. The deputies were at a loss as to what was happening; we were all talking at once, voices overlapping. Amidst the confusion, Maillard acted as our spokesperson, detailing our demands: first and foremost, food for the starving. Secondly, that the royals be brought to Paris, away from the influence of the court at Versailles, with their bodyguards replaced by members of the National Guard. The deputies listened, uncertain. One began speaking to Maillard directly, listening seriously to his denunciation of a certain baker refused to grind flour, in order to drive up the price of bread. I almost laughed aloud with surprise and pride to see who the listener was.

"That's Maximilien Robespierre," I whispered to Amelie, happily. "He'll work this out. He's the one who can help us."

She glanced at me, amused. "Never heard of him. Thought we weren't supposed to trust just one person?"

I blinked. True. "Yes, and I still stand by what I said. Rarely can one person can be a saviour. But Robespierre... funnily enough, I think he tries."

She wrinkled her nose. "What's so different between him and a king, then?"

That was easy. "He is merely _one_ representative of an Assembly of delegates, where no-one dictates; every decision is made after considered debate, followed by a democratic vote. He was chosen by the people, on the basis of virtue, not by some accident of birth." I believe Robespierre overheard this, as he seemed to laugh fondly under his breath.

"Isn't it still that, though? If he'd been born as, say, someone like me, he'd be standing here rather than up there," she said.

I shook my head. "Not any longer. Perhaps before, but eventually birth will be of no consequence. Besides, his family was not rich. Soon, everyone will be given the chance to control their own fate. That's what people like Robespierre are attempting to achieve. He, above anyone else, _cares – _for all people, equally." The last sentence was as much for Robespierre's benefit as Amelie's. I was determined that he know I understood, as much as I was able. He always believed that the people were behind him, and, well.

"But," sighed Amelie, philosophically, "we still don't have bread in the meantime."

"Exactly!" snapped Maillard, overhearing. "No bread! The king and the National Assembly must listen to our demands!"

They agreed to send for a deputation from Versailles. In the meantime, we had to settle for the night – a difficult task to accomplish, particularly as 6000 or more protesters were disinclined to be pacified. Haphazardly, we arranged ourselves on the benches in the National Assembly hall. I would have searched for my friends, but weariness overcame me and I was soon unconscious – unusual, for I am normally a light sleeper.

I woke a little after midnight, to turmoil. Nobody appeared to have a clear idea of what had happened, but many were panicking. One woman, Julie, explained to me how several of our number had found their way into the palace; the king's bodyguards had shot at them. I felt a surge of anger. Spurred by this, I found myself leaving the building and heading to the palace, scarcely before my common sense could question the logic of this action. I knew of a secret staircase – probably the same entrance that the women had used several hours earlier.

My arrival coincided with that of Lafayette's, plus 20,000 National Guardsmen – the former was kneeling at the feet of Louis, in the palace entrance. Dotted throughout the crowd were some of the women from the demonstration, including Amelie, who I immediately rushed towards.

As I was later to learn, the National Guardsmen had demanded to go to the palace to aid the demonstrators; Lafayette had been forced to acquiesce.

I was positioned towards the front of the crowd; I managed to catch Louis' eye, which was an event that seemed to me oddly inevitable. He looked hapless and overwhelmed – his gaze lingered on me with something akin to regret. I glared flintily back, with loathing. How strange I must appear to him, it occurred to me! Clothing modest, and mud-splattered to boot; face begrimed. Yet, for all that, I was certain that my face radiated conviction, as did all the others', shining from under the dirt. Conviction that he, feeble-minded incompetent that he was, altogether lacked; all the jewels and ornate apparel in the world could not disguise it. If anything, it served to emphasise.

Yet Amelie looked at him in unmitigated awe. _Do not be deceived, _I urged her, silently. A monarch is dazzling on first sight – and, true, I had allowed the light which reflected off the facade to captivate me for a number of years. Now, with vision fully adjusted, I could only hope that Amelie and the others would see beyond the distraction, aided by the tarnishing effect of events, sooner than I had.

Louis eventually capitulated to our demands. He agreed to return to Paris. He promised bread. The people cheered him.

It was time to part ways with the demonstrators, including Amelie. They were to accompany the royals back to Paris; after some deliberation, I opted to remain with the National Assembly for a while. I kissed her hand, with all the elegance of a courtier, then her cheek. She giggled and rolled her eyes. "It was wonderful to meet you, Amelie." She was not at all beautiful, which I found quite enchanting. "Take care." She nodded.

I caught sight of Robespierre, who was watching the royals climb into their carriages, along with a group of his colleagues. He walked up to me. Amelie flushed, nervously. "... Thank you," she breathed, generously, and then darted away. I felt a rush of affection for her.

"A friend?" he asked me.

"Just an acquaintance, I suppose," I said, quietly. "Most likely I'll never see her again."

"That's sad," he said, sincerely.

"Hardly," I replied, calmly. "I won't see her, but I know her. I know them all, on one level. I'll never meet everyone, but I am aware of every last one of the French. Though, admittedly, to _be with _people properly, rather than just _feeling _them... I've always preferred that."

He looked at me, searchingly. "What exactly are you, Francis?" He knew I was a nation, of course. That was not what the question meant. He was asking something I had constantly asked myself: what _was_ I, amidst all that? Man, nation, culture, every French citizen – or just a piece of land? Victim or villain?

"Honestly, Maxime, I have no bloody idea." I grinned, with sudden intensity. "But I'm going to learn."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N**

**Greetings, all! All right, for those of you who can still remember the little summary at the beginning of the first chapter and would feel short-changed if this went unmentioned, let me warn you that this chapter contains slight France/America. Funny pairing, really, but it was only logical. Sorry if I didn't stick completely with the pairings I mentioned in the first place – but, really, I'm going to assume that if you've made it this far in, you're reading it for the French Revolution, so I can't imagine that anyone would mind too much? I hope?**

**France**

In November, I received several missives of the most charming intent.

_France!_

_Really? What I mean is – really? Shit, you are truly crazy. Admittedly, on some insane level, it is a little awesome. Mostly crazy, though. Still, you've probably got that a lot from the rest, huh? Well, normally, if you told me the rest of the world was telling you that you need to be committed to an asylum, you know I'd say "fuck yeah! You must be doing something right!" At the moment? I don't know, not really. Shit. This is so bizarre. Except part of me still wants to say "fuck yeah!" _

_Just as long as you keep the crazy to yourself. But you never do, do you?_

_Yours in the most awesome manner possible (eh, it goes without saying really, doesn't it?)_

_Prussia!_

_France,_

_Dare I ask what you have done? To say that I would have expected better of you would be something of an exaggeration. However, this foolishness is completely unprecedented. Please consider carefully what you are doing. To govern a country is not the appropriate role of an unruly mob, as I thought would be blisteringly obvious. I demand to hear from Maria at once. She is safe from this savagery, I trust? Or have you handed her over to your riotous crowds?_

_Yours appalled,_

_Austria_

_Oh, France,_

_Austria does not know I am writing this – you won't mention it to him, will you? I just wanted to say... actually, to be perfectly honest this is a waste of paper, because I have no idea what I wanted to say. Well done? Maybe? No. No, not really. _

_You are terrifying everyone, you know. _

_Hungary_

_PS Really don't tell Austria. He does not understand at all, and it's a little frustrating._

I left another debate at the Assembly part apprehensive, part exhilarated. I had spent my time replying to the letters – reassuring them all that I was in full possession of my sanity, that the royals were safer than ever, guarded from the influence of the court by the people's militia, and that if they refused to rise of their own volition, it was practically my duty to shock them all out of submission. I did not expect replies, but I anticipated more correspondents in the coming months.

"_France!_"

Exiting the National Assembly building, I found myself hit with the force of what felt like half a ton of bricks wrapped in a sack. I was propelled to the ground (why did impromptu appointments with the floor appear to have become the norm for me?) before I had time to catch a glimpse of the one who offered this... greeting.

I glanced at my assailant's boots, then upwards. "Amer... ow... America...?"

"Oops, sorry!" he laughed. "You're wondering why I'm here, huh? I came to see how Tom Jefferson's doing – also to say hello to Lafayette and stuff and he's a little sulky at the minute – Tom's having a blast; it's actually really funny..."

"America. If you would be so kind as to help me up?" I interrupted the onslaught, squinting up at him. The sun blurred the lines of his profile, and good grief, he looked so young and so bright. He had an air of undaunted optimism that was almost palpable.

"Oh, yeah, sure. Heh, really sorry about that," he said. With one hand, he hoisted me up. In one fluid motion, he proceeded to pull me towards him and kiss me, sharply and briefly. "Also came to tell you that you're awesome," he said, happily. "We'll show the world, right?"

"All of Europe is against me, _mon ange," _I murmured, burying my fingers in his hair and feeling the residual warmth it had absorbed from the sun. Strange, no? November, and sunlight, albeit supplying more light than heat? For a second, I was contented, glad to be in the presence of someone who understood, one of the enlightened, like Robespierre, only a nation – a companion whom I loved and had missed, petulant child that he could sometimes be, a little like Desmoulins.

It had been a few months since I had last seen America, and our last meeting had not been entirely amicable. But, he _would _retain trading ties with England...! A few sharp words had been exchanged - I accused him of ingratitude and he accused me of being too economically backward to deal with. We had parted on precarious ground – undoubtedly allies, but undeniably in the midst of an unresolved quarrel. Judging by the enthusiasm of his greeting, it appeared that all had been forgiven. I did not doubt it had a little to do with the official abolition of feudalism, as much as mutual fondness. However, perhaps I attribute calculation too liberally to one who rushes headlong into entanglements?

(Very much akin to myself, except I calculate as I run. For the most part.)

"Yeah, but _I'm_ with you," he grinned, pressing his face close to mine so that our breath mingled as one. "If Austria or Prussia or someone tries to interfere, it'll just have to be us against the odds again. We work well like that."

I laughed, pulling back a little. "I _have_ missed you! But they are all terrified of me, dear one. Their monarchs are frantic with fear, and they have not yet learned to detach their feelings from those of their oppressors. Austria, Hungary and Prussia are up in arms with alarm – not literally, I suppose, although it would not surprise me." He did not seem to be listening. Exasperation merged with fondness; I sought to shock him to attention: "Even England is wary." Well, he could hardly drop by expecting the entanglement to become untangled of its own accord, could he?

I felt America tense in my arms at the mention of England. It had been a foolish and entirely superfluous comment, I realised, too late. "Yeah, well, he would be," he said, possibly attempting a light tone, but only succeeding in spitting the words resentfully.

"Disregard England," I said, smoothly. "I have every intention of setting an example for nations elsewhere, but for now, when the revolution has barely begun, there is no use predicting what the ramifications will be. He admires me from afar and feigns indifference. Ineptly."

America was silent.

"Anyway, we have both triumphed rather spectacularly," I said.

"Uh-huh. I ought to go, France," he said, with a trace of regret. He eased out of the embrace unexpectedly; taken aback, I caught his arm before he could walk away.

"You're not staying?" I asked.

"There are things I have to deal with to back home," he said, although he did not attempt to pull away.

"There always are," I smiled, reaching over and gently kissing his hand, in an attempt to recapture the previous mood. No point in persuading him to linger, of course – intractability was one trait he had learned from England. "Until we meet again, _petit._" Our eyes met as I glanced up. This time, the sun was behind me; I knew because he blinked, dazzled.

"Not _petit_," he grumbled, but flashed me a suitably sunny smile before turning to leave.

"America!" I called back, suddenly remembering. He turned around again, smiling good-naturedly, as though he knew I was trying to detain him with any reason I could and he would humour me for at least a little while. In actual fact, there was a purpose. "How do I do this?" I asked, pleadingly.

"Um. France. Do what?"

"Democracy, America. Where do we stand? As nations?" He stood perhaps a meter away from me and it felt further.

He blinked at me, uncomprehending. "I don't know," he shrugged, after a moment. "I never really thought about it like that. It's democracy. It just is. You go with the people. Go with what they tell you." He grinned again, and left, properly this time.

"America!" was what I didn't say, after that, although it took some effort to refrain. He seemed to have less of an idea than I did – perhaps this came more naturally to him, having never had his own king to deal with, merely a guardian. He had taken this new experience so naturally that imitation would be fruitless. So I was the first of my kind in recent history, when it came to that. There was so much I did not know – most definitely, I would have to discover it for myself. America had passed the baton to me; it was my task to lead the way for the others.

So I would lead, then.

**Present Day**

England, France has always asserted, is the most incredibly repressed creature that he has ever had the amusement to encounter. Currently, England appears to be repressing many things – chiefly, the desire to castigate, defenestrate and disembowel France, with no preference as to any particular order. As commonplace as this sentiment is, France affects a wounded expression.

To which the only response is a glare, even more searing than the previous one. "I thought I told you that what I did _not _want to hear was a sordid account of whatever occurred between you and – whoever you were screwing at the time," England says, enunciating each word with care that is both meticulous and furious.

"_One _kiss, _Angleterre, _is barely sordid by anyone's standards," chuckles France, reflecting that, yes, once more, he has succeeded in pushing the most interesting of buttons. What can he say? It is a talent.

Furthermore, America looks decidedly uncomfortable.

"Well, _Amerique_?" says France, breezily. "Is my report satisfactorily accurate?"

America rolls his eyes, grinning awkwardly. Nonetheless, having irritated his fair share of Englishmen in the past, he knows how to proceed. "You're evil," he informs France, cheerfully. "But yeah. Hey, England, you look grumpier than usual. Are you sad that you were left out when everyone else got to have all the revolutions?"

"Yes, I am deeply envious of missing out on all of those exciting massacres," snaps England. "As for you, Frog – _you_ are just stalling to avoid talking about the guillotine."

"It is only 1789, _mon lapin,"_ says France, softly, although the arrogant grin fades from his face.

"Actually, it's 2010 - _rabbit_?" splutters England, all previous offences forgotten in light of this new insult.

"I must describe the events as they occurred," continues France. "Context is all."

"And again I say –_ rabbit_?"

"You objected to _chou_, did you not?"

"Of course I objected to bloody _cabbage_. I do not know of anyone who would not object to being likened to a brassica. The objection indicated sanity. What it did not indicate, however, was a desire to be subjected to yet another tedious pet name_._"

"Term of endearment, _mon petit papillon_!"

**France**

Walking aimlessly around Paris, I felt lighter than I had last week. With every day, I felt lighter, airy – to all intents and purposes, prepared to take flight. Yet I still couldn't shake off the feeling that I had emerged from some kind of ordeal, miraculously unscathed, but only with the aid of unearthly luck.

As I trod the Rue de Saint Antoine, I heard a high, piercing voice, shrouded in lower murmurs, drift towards me. Approaching the sound, speeding to a hastier pace, I came across a crowd of people on the street. Standing a head above the general throng, positioned on a box, was Marat, and in a voice half-hoarse came old, familiar words.

"Theorists are led into error because, seeing only States that have been from the beginning wrongly constituted, they are struck by the impossibility of applying such a policy to them..."

At this, Marat struggled to make the tail end of his sentence audible, so great was the roar from the crowd; passionate cries of assent met and battled with lone catcalls of outrage. There was Marat, high enough to survey them all, yet close enough to touch, continuing without pause, hesitation, or even breath, as far as I could tell. Save a slight increase in volume, he showed no impatience – merely delight at having caused such a stir. He read Rousseau as though it was of desperate importance, as a wounded man cursing his assailants, or as though from the top of a barricade amidst cannon fire and musket shots. Oh, his voice evoked violence and clamour, as always; ever the agitator, Marat. Ever on the windy side of mental stability, but I loved him for his sheer intensity.

Still, I could discern traces of strain in his demeanour, and more than traces of overuse in that rough, sonorous voice. But the words seemed to buzz through my veins, more intoxicating than any liqueur, but rather than dulling and softening, they sharpened and clarified. I was in my element, with an audience surrounding me, and words of sedition on my lips, as I inadvertently recited the next sentence in unison with Marat.

Noticing me, he laughed, appreciatively, pausing for a second. During that respite, the spell was broken by a furious yell from beyond the circle of listeners.

"Another of _you _– self-proclaimed saviours of humanity!" it taunted, derisively. "Let me tell you – I for one am sick to death of being harped at! What right have you to preach?" I whipped around to see the speaker, a middle-aged man, well-dressed, bourgeois. "To hell with your Rousseau! You don't speak for me, though you blather on about 'general will'."

I recoiled, as though struck. "The circumstances for the general will to be heard have yet to be put in place," I said, fiercely. "All we have ever had is the preservation of vested interests!"

"Who are you to speak for the country?" he retorted, somewhat nonsensically to any outside listener, but to me, it resonated – painfully.

I recoiled, as though struck. It inevitably crossed my mind to laugh, scornfully: "I _am _the country and I'm capable of speaking for myself." But, with the residue of Rousseau's words still on my tongue, I knew it would be undermining my own point.

I was the country, yet the general will was not mine to command – only to convey.

Instead of speaking, I stumbled my way out of the crowd, blundering forward until they were out of sight and earshot. Ridiculous that one obdurate, overfed bourgeois should retain the power to shake the foundations of my certainty! But then, so did every person. I had to speak for them all. It was unfeasible. Must I then be silenced?

"D-damn it all!" I breathed, lunging at the nearest wall in frustration. This was beginning to become a kind of cathartic habit, was it not? It hurt. I am not sure why that surprised me. That it hurt.

Another habit was to go see Robespierre and talk of nothing but political theory, it appeared. So I went to see Robespierre.

He really did hate unexpected visits. Nonetheless, I imagine he was growing accustomed to mine. Also to me, in general. I could tell because:

"Something has happened to make you confused. Either you want to talk about it directly, or you want to circle around the issue by way of bringing up a more general theme and discussing that until you feel calmer. Come in, sit down, please don't rock back on the chair else you'll break it, and tell me which one it is."

Slumped against the door frame, mentally on edge and physically exhausted: "You are wonderful, Maxime."

"Would you like some coffee?" he smiled.

"I would like some clarity but, failing that, coffee will do."

He led me inside; I occupied what had become my usual chair. "I would like to talk a little in general, if it doesn't annoy you," I decided, leaning forward to rest my chin in my hands. "Do you know what it is like to constantly revert back to one theme in your mind, to the exclusion of all else?"

He nodded, slowly. "Of course. There are questions which perplex me, unremittingly. The duality of it all is wont to taunt me, at times, until I feel as though I am trying in vain to unravel a knotted mass of thread, blindfolded."

"Only the thread is thin and easily tangled, and I can hardly tell if it is comprised of one piece, or several."

"Yes. It often seems as though life was made only to accommodate that one, all-pervading issue; events during the day relate to it; my thoughts tend inexorably towards it."

"We are succeeding in being delightfully unspecific," I smiled.

"That we are," he agreed, patiently.

I allowed a bubble of silence to form, before interjecting with: "Are you ever afraid, Maxime?"

"Constantly," he answered, with scarcely any hesitation. He then added, with equal conviction: "But you are not."

"... No. I am simply stuck. I need advice as a nation, not as a man; the only one who is capable of offering it barely knows _what_ he does, let alone _why_ he does it."

"Enlighten me on this issue of nationhood," said Robespierre. "And I, in turn, might be able to shed some light on your persistent theme."

I wondered if he could. Empathy, of course, was impossible – only America could have provided that – but then, who else can we nations listen to, if not our own people? Who better to ask, come to that?

"As France," I began, "I could not be so arrogant as to assume I speak for every individual French person. Most nations circumvent this difficulty by following the visions of their leaders, or simply by remaining impartial." I fixed him with a steady gaze, which he met without hesitation. "Call it impetuosity, but I could not stand to be impartial."

He nodded. With that, he _could _empathise.

"Logically, I ought to be the embodiment of the general will," I continued. "But how can I be sure of that, when no nation has ever been able to discover truly what they are? How many have even asked? I do not know what to believe, Maxime. I have ideas, true, but I am a novice at this. There is nobody to follow, and _I_ can scarcely lead." I mused for a second. "But sometimes – sometimes it _is _wonderful. There are times when I stand in the crowd and I can hear the voices of millions, coursing through my blood. Yes. I cannot speak for them all, individually, but I can _feel _them all – they dictate my moods, my opinions, my preferences... they _are _me. But collectively. The working people, after all, outnumber the nobility, and it is with the former that I identify the most. And it is not just that – my personality, my mindset is determined by so many things, I am positive, past _and_ present. How, then, to balance it?"

"The country answers to the statesmen and the statesmen answer, above all else, to the people," said Robespierre. "Therefore, _you_ answer to the people. _That _is what you believe – their will is your will."

I sensed that the conversation had swung around to where the country stood, rather than myself as an individual. That was only right, after all. "Then that is another issue - what is to prevent the statesmen from acting contrary to the will of the people and country?"

"Nothing," said Robespierre, ominously. "And not all of them _do_."

"In that event, whose will do I follow? That of the statesmen or that of the people?"

"Once we are rid of the hypocrites, there will be no need to distinguish between the two." I shivered. It was not the first time that Robespierre had criticised those delegates who he believed to be working for nothing more than personal profit.

I often wondered if this conversation was at least partially to blame for what followed – which is foolish at best and self-centred at worst, I realise. I know now the details of the several issues which preoccupied Robespierre constantly: the government must remedy the failing of previous institutions; it must do so by being unselfish; the people will judge this; but what is to stop the power-hungry from deceiving them? Thus, his seemingly obsessive fear of traitors within was, according to his system of beliefs, quite rational – in fact, its very structure depended upon honesty and virtue.

Unlike others who realise that utopia depends on this, he did not admit defeat, or cite 'human nature' as an insurmountable problem excluding them from living in peace and co-operation. Instead, he tried to manipulate circumstances in order to bring about the conditions necessary for honesty and virtue to prevail.

He didn't succeed. But he did not fail either.

He saw that dependence upon what cynics deem 'human nature' was what slowed progress to a halt. He realised the importance of ideals, and the dangers of betraying them. Oh, Robespierre. It wasn't that the world was sinful; it wasn't that the world was unprepared either. People are predominantly good, and at the time people could never have been _more _prepared. It was not human nature, or some sense that the world was unready which failed Robespierre.

It was pure circumstance, and it was lack of forgiveness. Robespierre had faith in the innate virtue of people. The trouble was if they disappointed him, he found it very difficult to forgive them.

I remember what he once told me, some time in perhaps 1790 or '91; to this day, it echoes constantly through my mind. "Don't let them tell you it can't be done, Francis. When they say we cannot live in happiness and equality because people are selfish and mean-minded, what they actually mean is that _they themselves_ are selfish and mean-minded. Do not let them speak out for the whole country; do not let them declare their own nature to be human nature. Do not ever be dissuaded by those who profess that it cannot be done."

And on the whole, I would like to believe I haven't.

**Present Day**

"He sounds like a cool guy," says America, hesitantly. "A little nutty, I guess, but... what went wrong, anyway?"

"That is hopefully what this story will tell, as I always intended," replies France. "I only hope I have the resolve for it. Towards the end, it – it isn't a pleasant tale. It does not end... nicely. On the whole."

England looks up, nods. "Keep going," he says, firmly.

"I thought you said this was a pointless exercise?" asks France, incredulously.

"Well, yes, but what isn't?" England shrugs.

"Don't tell me in your warped, cynical way that was a mark of approval."

"It's the best you're going to get, Frog," sniffs England.

"For which, assuredly, I am most grateful, _mon chou._"


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey, people! I'm so sorry this chapter has taken so long to produce. College work has been crazy, but that's no excuse to neglect fandom! By the way, it occurs to me that the more I read about the Revolution, the more I find that interpretations are so varied it's unbelievable. So I am taking many, many liberties with the characters. Forgive me, O Gods of History! Ah well. I have to remind myself that this is fan fiction, not a thesis. :) **

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**France**

I found Marat setting up his box on the street again, presumably in order to give a repeat of yesterday's performance. I wondered if he had been doing this every day: travelling all over Paris in order to read Rousseau to the populace. Certainly he was acquiring a popular following – although not, I might hasten to add, amongst his revolutionary colleagues.

"France," he said, greeting me with his customary sly grin of acknowledgement.

"Hah," I breathed, softly. "I do not feel like France at the minute. Humour me, my friend, and let me be Citizen Bonnefoy for now. Or rather, Francis to you." I was fond of Marat, even if his somewhat bolt-and-braces approach to politics alarmed some.

He raised his eyebrows at that. "Did that hare-brained bourgeois frighten you before?" he said, incredulously. "No point in walking away, France. Argue back! These days, things are more likely to end in a brawl than reconciliation; no use in being even-tempered and ineffectual. Ideals and actions should be interchangeable." This said, he slouched comfortably on the box.

"It took me by surprise," I said, leaning against the wall, next to him. "I suppose years of listening to the prattle of kings have attuned me to the idea that politics are simply battles between divine right and heretical wrong." I laughed. "I am utterly reconciled to my beliefs, but the minute they are challenged, they chime out of harmony." It was a problem. Did it indicate fragility of opinion?

"So fight back!" insisted Marat. "After you left, it took only a few choice comments to get the crowd to chase him away – sadly, no harm done, but it certainly gave him a shock. Regardless. If you can persuade yourself, you ought to justify yourself too. Be unwavering. Reason is reason."

"Reason is reason is reason – Jean-Paul, that phrase means nothing." Rationality – that panacea of the liberal intellectual movement...

He laughed, loudly. "True! But it's a far sight better than what those monarchist fools spout – to say nothing of the _moderates_."

I sighed. "I could have countered him easily. '_I _am _your country'. _But, at the time, I did not feel deserving of the title." I stretched, slowly – today's weather had an edge to it, but the relative lack of breeze gave a feeling of peace which made me languid. Then, glancing at Marat: "Why didn't _you _tell him, then? That I was the country, I mean. He didn't even recognise me! Am I nothing to people unless I don a regal outfit and clothe myself with matching, equally false imperial airs?" Not that the airs were not amusing to act, in their own way.

Marat shrugged, surprised. "It was irrelevant," he said, in answer to my first question. "Citizen," he said, placing emphasis on the word, "you can either preside over us as the country, or you can join us as a man. People don't take too kindly to being presided over these days, so I'd suggest joining us as an equal."

"The country is who I am," I countered. Leaving the question of exactly _who _I was, for now. I had never known _that, _had only recently wondered, and was utterly at a loss as to a distinct definition.

"Who you are is one of _us_," said Marat. "The country ought to side with the patriots. So stop even thinking about serving the privileged minority; you have to shed the last traces of grandeur and –" here, he glanced behind, broke off and cursed, with great volume and creativity.

"Er," I interjected, mildly. "You were saying?"

"Me," he was muttering, disbelievingly. "They're after _me. _For doing what? Speaking louder and with more purpose than the rest? I'll be amused to see what they try to charge me with." Laughing, he made as if to run.

"Who?" I asked, stopping him.

"The gendarmerie, of course," he replied, lightly. "Wish me luck." Swiftly, he bolted away.

Hastily, I darted after him. Glancing behind me, I could indeed locate a group of gendarmes in pursuit. Marat doubled back down a tucked-away alley that was partially shaded from view – rather ominously, to my thoughts. I followed nevertheless, hoping our pursuers had not spotted this detour.

"I am flattered by this attention, Citizens Guardsman," he fumed, addressing an invisible crowd of policemen, "but if you really wish to curb rebellion, you may as well arrest three quarters of Paris, if not more!"

"Jean-Paul, it's a dead end," I said, in a low voice. "They'll find you and shut you away again!" For indeed, Marat had served his time in prison before.

He shook his head and crouched on the floor, hands patting its surface like a blind man. He then stopped moving, having found what he sought. "You want to help? Lift this with me," he said.

Cursing the indifference to grime of professional revolutionaries, I knelt beside him. He was gesturing towards – I squinted sceptically in the darkness – a sewer grate.

"Please assure me you are joking," I groaned.

"I assure you, I'm joking," he said, through gritted teeth, in between tugging at the cover.

"I think you might be lying," I said, grimly.

"Will you give me a hand already?"

Together, we managed to pull the cover away, revealing a putrid-smelling entrance.

"You are _insane,_" I said. A statement of fact.

"You are not obliged to follow," he said; with that, he slipped into the sewers.

I would hear footsteps in the background – whether they were the police or no, I could not say for certain. Probably I had little to fear from them anyway. However, credit me with some loyalty to my friends. _Excessive _loyalty, one might go as far as to say.

Case in point: inwardly consigning every policeman, aristocrat and conservative bourgeois to hell (along with England, Austria and Prussia, whilst I was at it), I descended down the unpleasantly slippery ladder into the very veins of Paris.

* * *

**Present Day**

France, England and America are sprawled at their various stations in the room: France sitting at the desk in the centre of the room; England in an armchair by his side, somewhat swamped by it, looking small and defensive; America unable to remain motionless for long without feeling the urge to pace from side to side in order to dispel excess energy. Contentedly, they munch pizza.

"This wouldn't be around the time you began insisting people call you _Citizen Bonnefoy, _would it?" says England, waving a piece of crust, presumably for emphasis. "Because you really reached a new height of pretentiousness back then. You _know_ our human names are nothing but an affectation."

America makes a disgruntled noise. "What's wrong with our human names?"

"I know nothing of the sort," France smiles in reply to England. He smiles because he knows that England's human name – _Arthur _– holds far more significance – and regret - than England would care to admit, or to be reminded of on a regular basis."It was to prove a point. Transition to democracy, _Angleterre; _it was a difficult time for all of us. Suddenly we had to actually query who we were. Autocracy was so easy, no? Existentially speaking. If, of course, one discounts the mass poverty, lack of liberty and appalling social injustice."

"Yeah," says America. "Yeah, that kinda features."

"You have tomato sauce on your upper lip," England informs him, with satisfaction. America sticks out his tongue.

"And you, _Angleterre, _have the indelible stain of cynicism on your life," replies France, poetically.

"Spare us your ill-conceived imagery and _write,_" England orders him.

France obediently complies.

* * *

**France**

"Would you consider it discourteous if I questioned you as to why you are running from the law?" I asked as we trudged along the pitch-black tunnels.

"Don't call it law. Arbitrary constraints constructed only to benefit the rich and powerful do not deserve the name of law," he answered, promptly. "Which is why I am at perfect liberty to flout them."

I raised an eyebrow. "Care to tell me how you ended up falling foul of these unfortunate arbitrary constraints on your liberty?"

He chuckled. "Take a guess."

I did not even make a show of pretending to consider. "I would guess that you managed to annoy one group amongst the many who _do _benefit from said constraints."

"Wrong. I have pissed off _everyone_," he said, with blunt satisfaction.

I rolled my eyes heavenward (the ceiling rather got in the way, but, well) and indulged in a gusty, regretful sigh. "What have you been saying, my friend? Or, rather, writing?"

"Let's just say that I spared no-one. I revealed nothing more than the truth about several -institutions. The Constituent Assembly. The ministers. The corps municipal. That hypocrite, Lafayette, who is a republican in America and the royals' lackey in his home country. Mirabeau, in the pay of anyone who offers, with half the National Assembly in his clutches, who somehow manages to command the adoration of a slavish majority. Orleans, who thirsts for the throne, but lacks the brains to stage a coup. In short, I made a few derisive comments towards a keg of powder, and the keg went and took offence." He gave me an ingenuous look: _what can you do?_

"Marat," I said, mournfully. "You have been languishing in a cell for months. You now skulk in the sewers. In all likelihood, you will be back to languishing within a matter of days. Yet you keep going. I swear, you are either a martyr, or mad!"

The word 'mad' reverberated across the mud-drenched walls, with a correspondingly maniacal edge to the sound. Marat's laughter soon interspersed, giving the impression of a macabre duet.

"I am serious," I said. "You astound me – that's the truth."

"Don't idealise me, France," he grinned, slyly. "Don't idealise at all. S'dangerous. We're none of us paragons of _vertu. _Although, for the record, I didn't languish – I raged."

"I can imagine," I said, wryly. "But you didn't answer the question."

"Probably because you didn't ask a question."

I stopped. "I didn't? Oh. No, I suppose I didn't. Well – '_why_?' springs inexorably to mind."

Marat peered at me, like an inquisitive bat. "Because we have to take the people with us," he said, as though it was self-evident. "They can witter on about the constitution and their trivial regulations at the National Assembly – some of us remember that it was the Parisian 'mob' that won us our victory. They have to give their consent, or anything we do is meaningless. So... so we read Rousseau in the streets, to the people it was made to address." He tapped his foot, impatiently; I began moving again.

Well, if the message had not been drilled into me before, it was carved on my very bones at this point: _take the people with you_. But then, how could something so obvious, so pure in its simplicity be radical? Logic was not radical, but, as dear America would put it, self-evident. _Egalite_? Certainly, there was an ideal that was radical. Marat. He lived, breathed and thrived on rebellion – I imagined that it was sedition which drove his limbs, not muscle. So different from Robespierre, although they fed on the same heady substance – that elusive idea, that far-reaching vision...

Down here, lofty ideals met with – well, put bluntly, dingy walls, underfoot slime and a smell that truly defied description. I imagined Robespierre's face if he could see us now – or, rather, could scarcely picture it! Here I was, stepping gingerly through the muck – Marat trod confidently, evidently able to navigate his way in this parody of a maze.

* * *

**Present Day**

"Oddly, I cannot imagine you stalking the sewers," says England.

"That much we have in common," says France. "I could not for the life of me imagine exploring that particular ground. Yet it happened all the same. Poor Marat. He did not know how finicky I could be."

"Distaste for that situation is not finicky," says England, who sounds as though he never imagined he would have to actually explain this. "But – granted, quite unusually, for you – utterly normal."

"It was not an experience I was eager to repeat," admits France. "Although – that resolution didn't quite pan out."

"And _that_ is a story none of us want to hear," decides America, quickly.

"Yes, continue with the story we _do _want to hear, Frog," says England, impatiently.

France considers asking England why he is so adamant to hear his tale, but eventually decides against it. After all – the very fact that it happened is enough to summon an arrogant, yet pleased, grin to his face. "Ah, appreciation!" he says, more vaguely. This, of course, serves to infuriate England all the same, what with the insinuation that he appreciates France. Ah, perversity!

* * *

**France**

We reached a section of the tunnel in which the sludge level... rose. _Well_. "Marat, how can you bear it?" I cried, with no small measure of anguish. "Regardless of what you say, you are one of the greatest men I know. And yet, here you are, wading ankle-deep through mud, waste and _excrement_! Is this how I and my people treat the great and virtuous?"

A pause, in which my outburst echoed embarrassingly.

I think he doubled over laughing. But silently, for which I was marginally grateful. I was beginning to feel ever so slightly ridiculed.

"And what's more," I continued, with dignity, "I am _drenched _in _muck._"

The laughter ceased to be silent.

"_Thank _you," I said, stiffly.

"Oh," Marat choked through his mirth, "you can sound _imperious_!"

On the contrary, I felt completely defeated, deflated and somewhat dejected.

"You've started wearing inexpensive clothing – I'm assuming out of solidarity for the poor," he said, more soberly. "Now you have the conditions to match. To the Parisian underclass, the sewers are your only high street. If you are going to mend your ways, you can't be afraid of getting your hands dirty."

"Or my attire, apparently," I said, bitterly.

"You're a nation!" he said, frustrated. "Surely you've seen worse on the battlefield."

"Much," I assured him. "It is the sheer indignity of the situation! And how unjust it is – for you more than for me, although I confess that sewer exploration is hardly a passion of mine."

"Now you are beginning to empathise as well as sympathise," said Marat.

"You mean I'm beginning to understand the degradation of the masses?" I said, sarcastically.

"Yes," he said, ignoring the insincerity.

"I've always felt what they feel," I said, dismissively.

"And now you are beginning to live it," he retorted. "You are beginning to live for the Revolution – beforehand, you were simply an observer."

"So what do you propose? Would you suggest a training session for every revolutionary? Drag the National Assembly to hold their meetings down here?" I was being insupportably arrogant, but somehow once the bile began to flow, I could not halt its progress. Almost certainly due to the fact that I believed what he said far too wholeheartedly to be comfortable with my own position. Strange how I had failed to perceive the vein of frustration running through the mountain of my principles until now. "How about we starve them? You can't lower everyone to the level of poverty – you have to allow the poor to rise instead!"

"Lofty words indeed," said Marat. "Who are they meant to console? Who are they mean to address?"

"Leave me be," I said, angrily.

Unacknowledged fear had given way to guilt, and pricked me into animosity. The creeping, unthinkable supposition that the problems could not be dug out, but only ameliorated. The terrifying prospect that, for all the anticipation and rapture, my show of defiance had been for nought. That revolution would subside into moderation, and moderation would solidify into a new form of apathy and oppression.

"How is it to be done?" I asked, suddenly. "How is the Assembly to manage this revolution?"

"_They_ are not the Revolution," said Marat, vehemently. "They are just parasites. There are few men in the Assembly who are impervious to bribes or immune to self-interest. The bourgeois have taken over. Soon, all our revolutionary gains will be in tatters! Their replacement? The flag of the property owners."

"No," I said, firmly. "They care."

"'They' meaning who, precisely? Name me one man in the government who is not in some way out for his own ends."

"Maximilien Robespierre," I replied, without hesitation.

"Ah. Him. The Candle of Arras." Marat knew of Robespierre, whose reputation was beginning to flourish. "He is a notable exception, I'll grant you. A rarity indeed – one who does not thrive on veneer. Name another."

"Georges Danton."

"Danton? Ha! He's lining his own pockets out of all this, you know. To be fair, I like his ideas. He will go far. He and Camille Desmoulins might just be able to steer you in the right direction – and by that, I mean republicanism."

"Danton, corrupt? Never him!"

"He's out for all he can make out of the Revolution," said Marat. "The strange thing is, he does not let himself be bought – merely paid. His ideas are admirable. But you are naming those of the radical faction. Those defenders of liberty comprise only a tiny minority – they make a lot of fuss, but little impact. France, it's vital that you listen to me. Don't take everything they say on trust! Only a fool would believe that the National Assembly are doing all that they can. Look around and what do you see? Are the poor living like kings? Has the king been flung into the gutter where he belongs? _Constitutional_ _monarchy_!" He spat, derisively.

"What good comes of attacking people who are trying to make things better?"

"I don't attack them. I think they are irrelevant. What matters are the people! You have to keep them engaged," he said, "otherwise the Revolution will be overthrown, in turn, by a new ruling elite. We need to fan the flames, keep the anger burning. Shock people out of submission. They must be taught not to accept even the smallest injustice – set a precedent by taking to the streets. And then we need leaders, with strong republican convictions, and equally strong stomachs, with which to implement what needs to be done. I'm by no means averse to terror as a method, if necessary. And it is most certainly necessary."

"_Terror?_" There I was, aghast at the thought. How laughable.

"It can be a potent weapon. If the wealthy do not fear us, they will make fools of us. This is war, _France. _Just because the battlefield is within your own mind does not mean that you can escape without bloodshed. The enemy must be rooted out; you can either control what is inevitable, or wait for the masses to perform the executions of their own accord. It is to save the nation, to prevent the greater massacres that would result later."

I shook my head. "The bloodshed has ended. It's time to rebuild. We've finished destroying."

"If you refuse now, then we've barely begun."

* * *

**Present Day**

"Indeed," says England, "we've barely begun. I can't say much for your ability to be succinct, Frog."

"It is not a succinct subject, _Angleterre._"

"This could take some time to finish," sighs England.

"Undoubtedly. I suppose once your little leadership crisis has resolved itself you will throw me unceremoniously out of your house and land?" inquires France. He fixes England with melting eyes, and refrains from adding '_although, given the nigh interminable nature of said crisis, I imagine I will be enjoying your hospitality for the best part of a year', _as that would probably detract from the imploring effect.

He is rewarded for this prudence by England's reply:

"Oh, very well! You can stay until you finish this damned saga of yours. Though why you would rather be _here _than at home is frankly beyond me."

Oh, England! He is completely incapable of doing anything for anyone else without disguising or begrudging his own generosity, thinks France. Utterly ashamed of his own altruism and proud beyond all reason of his faults.

"Is it so incomprehensible that I might want company?" France asks, sweetly.

"You never gave the impression that _my _company was anything but repellent to you," England counters. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't we meant to despise each other?"

"That does not necessarily mean I find your company abhorrent," twinkles France, provokingly.

"God, you two are so weird," says America, decisively. A thought occurs to him. "You do know that the longer France stays here, the more everyone else is going to think the two of you are _together_ now, or something." He snickers at the prospect.

England blinks at him in a delicate amalgamation of contempt and horror.

"Ah, it was his carefree and optimistic nature that first attracted me!" proclaims France, theatrically, eyes gleaming with mischief, twining his arm around England's waist. "One deep look into his eyebrows and I was lost!"

England looks at a loss for how to reply: namely, preoccupied with which scathing comment to begin with and who to pour scorn upon first. "Number one," he says, "I detest you, Frog. Number two: let go of me or I won't be considered responsible for the consequences of my actions. Number three..." he looks disdainfully at France. "Actually, no, let's keep this simple enough for you to comprehend. _Let go of me._"

"But my love! _Mon petit chou_!" cries France, enjoying this mockery immensely.

"Call me _cabbage _one more time and I will eviscerate you," England informs him, calmly.

"Like I said," mutters America, more to himself than anyone else, "totally weird_._" This spoken amidst the violent scuffle as England attempts to free himself.

France reflects wryly that England is probably regretting that last minute's generous impulse. However, there is no danger of it being revoked, primarily due to England's inveterate pride, but also owing to how, deny it as he may, _he _is just as fond of company as France. Never has such an isolated nation been so secretly sociable.

France suddenly remembers how, many centuries ago, England was such a reclusive child, delighting and wondering in the landscape around him, discovering countless hideaways and imaginary friends – eager beyond words to share these treasures, but secretive and guarded, lest his chosen confident only mock him.

Well, France had only mocked a little. And England had failed to appreciate that France's method of expressing his amazement was to laugh. In fact, with almost astonishing lack of perspicacity, he had spent centuries failing to appreciate that. The reclusive boy had cautiously crouched in places with which he was familiar, whilst the laughing child had grabbed him impetuously by the hand and pulled him along through the wilderness anyway, neither even coming close to comprehending the other, violent misunderstandings and hostile conflict imminent, fates inextricably intertwined.

_Dieu, _he is becoming sentimental...

* * *

**France**

Marat and I stared at each other, faces set, differences irreconcilable.

"I understand what you say," I said, eventually. "But to give up hope now would be criminal."

"Poor choice of words, Francis," he said, dryly. "Apparently I _am _acriminal."

"Apologies."

"Heh, forget it."

"You're right," I said, firmly blundering on, regardless. "We must take the people with us. They have to believe in the revolution. But what am I saying? They already _do_."

"I'm just fanning the flames," he agreed.

"But no terror," I pressed, adamantly. "Passion. Belief. Hope. Never terror. I trust the Assembly; I trust Mirabeau and, yes, I trust Danton, Desmoulins and Robespierre most of all. We have to work together – I want no divisiveness."

"I wish you will always believe that," he said, lightly, indulgently. The impression given was that he did not much expect his wish to be granted.

Anagnorisis. It was useless to rail uselessly against a useless situation. A revolution is a revolution is a revolution. Somehow, I had managed to snatch hope from the jaws of this tautology. We had broken the chains, but it would take time to learn how to fly, and time to adjust the wax wings until they could stand the sun. And all the while, the people must be informed and guided. Every step of the way, their consent was paramount. Marat had exasperated, astounded and angered me – all of which had been necessary.

(Which, of course, he was quite aware of.)

Time to resurface from despair, and from the sewers. To tussle with historical precedent and win the prize of an untainted future. And to smile, broadly, all the way, never losing resolve - or panache.

Well, I had set down my objectives. Today had been the nadir of my expectations and, as with all depths, the only possible direction was up. I planned to hurtle upwards with preternatural speed.

"I think we've managed to put them off my scent," said Marat.

"Yes, because the foul smell of the sewers disguises it," I grumbled, cheerfully.

"Well, as soon as I find an exit, you can escape and try to forget the experience," he replied. "If I'm right, we're somewhere near your lodgings."

"Right," I said. "What do you plan on doing?"

"Me? I plan to lie low for a while. Don't worry – I've no intention to disappear completely. I'll evade them instead. Sewers and cellars are the perfect places to hide."

"If I can help in any way..."

"Well, for a start, don't go to the gendarmerieand tell them where I am," he said. "That's about the extent to which you can help."

"I shall endeavour to perform this duty to my utmost ability," I said, smiling. "Have you anywhere to stay?"

"Oh, probably."

"Marat! You have nowhere to go!"

"I have an entire network of hideouts. Don't underestimate me. I might foist myself on Camille, if it comes to that. Here – help me lift this grate."

We shifted the cover, sending sunlight streaming in, piercing the dullness of our surroundings.

Perfect. Time to re-enter the world on the surface. Time to fly on deliberate collision course with the sun.


	9. Chapter 9

**Greetings, all! Ready for a new chapter, much of it epistolary? **

**Hey, so if anyone's interested, my sibling (who for some perverse reason prefers to remain gender neutral - username Aluminium) and I have written a Yu Gi Oh/Hetalia crossover; I wrote Prussia and she wrote Bakura, all in email format. Yep, that's right. Prussia meets Yami Bakura via email and hijinks ensue, involving death threats, puppies, shipping wars, world destruction and some truly awful nicknames. Knowledge of both series is not compulsory - hell, Prussia has no idea what's going on, either. Can be found on Aluminium's account.**

**[/Shameless self-and-sibling-promotion]**

**Right, so this is officially the last part to be set in 1789! Only four more years to go...! Yay!**

**

* * *

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**France**

Night. Writing desk. Habitual openness, characteristic frankness. All a front, really. Letters to an absent sweetheart; the most bittersweet of all to compose.

_Cher Amerique,_

_And how are you faring, beautiful one? It is very much still the two of us against the world over here – or, at any rate, Europe, which is beginning to feel like the same thing, there are so many threats of war with which I must contend. When I say threats, I mean implicit ones, of course, but then implication is so often the undoing of us all! _

_What am I writing? Very little of substance, I imagine. You are frowning at me, urging me to cease with such embellishments as war and foreign policy (ah, where lies the difference?) and begin with what I actually wish to speak to you of. The answer, my dear, is anything – I simply wish to speak to you! Yet the ocean divides us, and, regardless, that is obviously no satisfactory answer. All right, have it your way, if you must. _

_I fear – odd, seeing as how I am all but accused these days of fearlessness; laugh all you will – that this revolution is splitting into two. There is what I suppose one should now call the establishment: those who have all but attained their aims, those who felt stifled by the old regime, as their birth prevented them from realising their ambitions or furthering their potential. These individuals – and here I stress the word, as I feel their egoistic philosophies are significant – are what one could call the bourgeoisie, along with those who aspire to become such. They, to their delight, are now free, provided they have luck and merit on their side._

_Is that the full extent of what we have together forged? Is this the pinnacle of revolution? You roll those brilliant eyes at my overdramatic use of the rhetorical, but I assure you that you misunderstand me, as I ask in all seriousness. Tentatively, I will supply the answer: I think not. Individual merit always has its purpose, but recognising it is not the panacea of social change, as I believe tyranny to have... deeper roots. I despise that metaphor, as I do not wish to uproot any_one _– it is far too violent an expression. I refer to my own, less bloodthirsty prescription: the situation calls for more _upheaval. _There, that has connotations not of destroying organic life, but of toppling a building – much like the Bastille, hmm? _

_Well, the second piece of the revolution is the one to which my heart cleaves, I think. This consists of the firebrands – the radicals! The republicans. Your man, Jefferson, advised me to aim for nothing more ambitious than a constitutional monarchy. Et tu, cher? I do not propose that I advance no further than that which _Angleterre _has achieved! Regardless, I believe there is a further concern – the raison d'etre of the revolution, I might go as far as to say. There is yet another tyrant to overthrow, and its name is Poverty. Ambition may not be the sole property of the nobility, but still it remains the luxury of the rich and propertied. I worry, Amerique; I worry for the fate of les miserables, and I worry that considerations of their welfare lie abandoned by all but a select few. But, ah, how those few shine! Georges Danton, a tower of strength, and his inseparable friend, that madcap Camille Desmoulins, who managed to incite the crowd to insurrection on the basis of one speech. Jean-Paul Marat I adore – he terrifies me. Sadly, he has now been arrested. We tell ourselves the chains no longer bind us and liberty abounds, yet a man find himself incarcerated for his writing... tell me, Amerique, is that democracy? Again, I do not jest; I ask. Then there is my champion, The Incorruptible: one Maximilien Robespierre. Maxime! He is a mild-mannered, fastidious _titan _in his speeches. Admittedly, most view him as no more than the 'candle' of Arras (contrast to Mirabeau's Torch) and in form, speech and demeanour, he hardly gives the impression of strength – yet if one listens to what he says! I would have that man speak on behalf of the entire nation if I could._

_No, I am not serious. I do not hold with despotism, after all – nor shall I fall into the trap of idealising my champions. _

_Incidentally, writing this, I realise there is a third section to this revolution, and that is the people. The masses, the mob, the citizens... call them what you will, they hold the balance of power in the nation, yet they receive so little materially from those who ought to serve them. They are my heart, my mind, my soul, my life blood. Is that democracy? To feel that every citizen, from the richest to the most downtrodden, comprises a fraction of your soul? To hear those oft-abused 'masses' murmuring constantly in your ear? I believe it to be so._

_I believe it to be so. _

_Dieu, how I ramble! You see, if we were actually conversing, you would have stopped me by now, perhaps with a word, perhaps with a kiss... I miss you, my darling, and I hope all remains well between us. In these times, it is so difficult to tell; relations are volatile and nations are more likely to turn on each other in hate than they are to sit contentedly, twined together by the fire, talking of democratic theory. _

_All my love,_

_France_

I finished my epistle in the semi-darkness, no doubt spilling half the ink over my hands and sleeve in the process. I ought never to be allowed to write in the dark, as it is a time in which I find myself thinking far too frequently. Unfortunately, it is also the time in which I most frequently find myself writing letters on impulse. I drew a weary arm over my wearier brow and found that I had managed to inadvertently spill candle wax on my sleeve in addition to the ink.

Lying on the desk, pushed slightly to the side, was an unopened envelope which seemed to stare balefully at the note on my blotter.

"There's no call for unfriendliness, _Angleterre,_" I muttered, giving the offending package a jaunty tap. "Patience, _cher. _At least _try _to be civil."

In my mind, the envelope seemed to glare at me. I laughed, knowing that if its author were actually present, he would be verging on homicidal at this treatment.

I broke the seal (quite deliberately, he had used the royal coat of arms) and unfolded the letter, inching the candle closer as I did so.

Upon perusal, the tone of the letter revealed itself to live up to my expectations. Really, the expensive paper belied its terseness. England's custom was never to think before putting pen to paper and rarely bothering to proof-read. However, whilst in his previous letter his traditional disdain for me showed signs of thawing, his manner had frozen up once more with indignation – probably at the hint of friendliness in my reply.

_For fuck's sake, Frog,_

_No need to act as though you just discovered the Philosopher's Stone. Revolution existed long before this year, much as you'd love to claim to have invented it. I'll admit to being slightly impressed, but no more – honestly, I have never known a nation to delight quite so disproportionately in their own slither of audacity. As Europe's greatest attention whore, you have succeeded in capturing the attention of most. Now what do you plan to actually _do_? Spare me the guff about liberty, equality and whatever the third one was; if you are sincere in your ambition to lead the way for the rest of us, you have to show us that your system is modern, functional and _not _the greatest political embarrassment since your Queen decided that taxes ought to go straight to her jewellery fund. _

_That caution you so arrogantly dismiss is what has kept my government alive and stable. Need I remind you that, currently, you have achieved little more than I have already done through reform? Marat's little diatribe against my constitution notwithstanding. Do you intend to spread revolution across Europe? A dangerous vision. Continue this way and you will find yourself at war with us all. _

_Also? Spare me your effusiveness. I will take it as read that you are thrilled, inspired, rapturous, etcetera, about your little revolution's latest excesses. Naturally this euphoria will not last – nonetheless, whilst it persists, I beg you not to subject me to it. Anyone would think you had started a new love affair. I feel it necessary to remind you of the difference between politics and love. One is rational._

_Why am I advising you to combat your own foolishness? God knows. Perhaps out of a desire to preserve something that - despite the fact it was brought about by _you - _could potentially be great. _

_You know exactly where you can shove your ardent enmity,_

_England_

My current relations with England were... difficult to describe, at best. Particularly given that he is reading over my shoulder at present, but I shall do my utmost to ignore him and supply an accurate account of our relationship back then. Obviously there was the usual underlying animosity – that goes much without saying – yet I might be as daring as to observe some signs of admiration from him. Admiration that he did not even try unduly hard to veil. He mutters viciously under his breath at this, but I will not be dissuaded from writing!

It had been surprising to receive a letter that was not murderous, before. On the basis of a few – unpleasant – scenes that had occurred between us recently over the subject, I had wholly expected him to still blame me for America's recent transgression. Yet, although his anger held no bounds initially, I do not think he held a grudge in 1789 (correct me if I am wrong, _petit_) – over America, at any rate. Odd, seeing as, rationally speaking, I so clearly deserved partial responsibility. But then, say what you will about politics and, I dare say, love – neither is rational. Although, naturally, during the Enlightenment, I felt otherwise. Rationality was my _raison d'être. _

_Petit, calm yourself –_

_- I can feel the heat of your belligerence even from across the sea. _

_I sense a pattern here, don't you? First, you regard my innovations with ill-disguised awe. Then, by way of compensation, you seek to belittle them. Ten years too late, you then adopt them as your own and hope I will forget they ever belonged to me. So... ten years' time, petit. Let us see where your precious stability ends up. In the gutter where it belongs, I'd imagine. _

_You did not trouble to ask, but suffice to say that I am faring exceptionally well. Certainly I am not on the edge of the deadly peril you seem to be alluding to. Never have one people been so united in favour of a cause! _

_As for my 'effusiveness' – well, we all fall victim to that, no? Case in point: your previous letter. 'It must have been... bliss to be there'. Ha! How blunt and to the purpose that was. Certainly no gushing there. _

_But you must excuse the base sarcasm. I do not write to snipe at you. Overmuch. _

_You seem to be behind the times – not just in the obvious sense, although that accusation still rings with the truth of a thousand clear bells – but in terms of news. I have been taking plenty of actions with my little revolution. All church property has now been nationalised. Excess indeed! I can picture your look of pious horror. It is quite adorable. Yes, no longer will the church have a stranglehold on the country – nor must the people be slaves to it. How heathenish! How irreligious! Indeed, petit, indeed. _

_Both Louis Capet (the King, but we call him that no longer; it only encourages him) and the National Assembly have moved to Paris, meaning no more traipsing between Paris and Versailles and back again for me. Meanwhile, Desmoulins has published a journal, 'Histoire des Revolutions'. I even have a new currency! The Assignat. Truly, Angleterre, if you imagine I have been spending my time sitting in the rubble of the Bastille, waving a flag and composing slogans, you should cease thinking in caricatures. Although, incidentally, they now seem to be selling pieces of the demolished Bastille as souvenirs – souvenirs of a time in which political dissidents suffered torture! I suppose every event has a commercial aspect. I shall send one to you; you with your morbid sense of humour would appreciate such a gift. _

_As it is, I await your reply with bated breath – truly, Angleterre, one letter from you is enough to send my spirits soaring. _

_With all due scorn,_

_France_

**Present Day**

"I suppose it'd be too much to ask you _not _to include every single one of our private letters back from the late eighteenth century?" asks America, laughingly. He is not annoyed – France judges that he does not really care either way; America has, for one thing, never been one for secrets. The only part of his life about which he displays a certain reticence is, of course, his period as England's faithful colony. The rest may as well be displayed for all the world to see and revel in – provided nothing too uncomfortable is revealed.

"Much as that would make for illuminating reading, I only include a handful," replies France, slyly. "Simply to provide the relevant context." Context is all.

America rolls his eyes, grinning, and does not pursue the matter any further. In some respects, he has fewer inhibitions than France himself.

France leans back into his chair (grown slightly uncomfortable after all these hours; England always did opt for stateliness rather than comfort in terms of furniture) and laces his hands behind his head. He is waiting for the inevitable onslaught of spluttered protestations from England's corner of the room – the one of them with enough inhibitions to _share_. Anything concerning him and his correspondence, and England will be up in arms – this, France knows now from experience.

Yet the inevitable does not occur. England is silent. Indeed, he is practically _calm_ – by _reasonable _standards, not even by his own.

"_Angleterre_?" France's tone verges on concerned.

"Frog?" he drawls back, lazily.

"Aren't you – going to vehemently protest that I have got everything wrong?" France asks, now quite worried.

"Irritation, violence, sarcasm – all that denial-ridden jazz?" America prompts, helpfully.

England blinks innocently at them both. "I'm tired," he shrugs, mildly.

France tuts. "Lack of sleep has never been known to mitigate your..."

"Being you," supplies America.

"I was going to say 'unique qualities'; still, that works just as well," concedes France. "It defies grammar, slightly, but no matter."

"Grammar? Tch," says America, with a dismissive grin.

"Yes," said France. "Indeed, grammar is most unnecessary."

"Didn't say _that _exactly –"

England makes a small, irritated noise; they appear to have forgotten him in their quibbling. "As I said before: I am tired. Due to this, I shall not attempt to flay you alive, Frog, for your woeful misjudgement of my character and motives. I will not upbraid you for the supreme inaccuracy of this latest little instalment. I will refrain from commenting that if you wish to air the dirty laundry that is your little entanglement with America, there are far better places to do it and far better audiences to subject to it. I could go on. But I won't. Because, right now, I am _tired_." His voice increases in pitch towards the end of this speech, but otherwise remains level and seemingly detached.

France laughs. "This is history. I am merely detailing the evidence."

"Fuck your evidence," mutters England, wearily.

"He wasn't even sarcastic. That answer barely even made sense," whispers America to France. "Uh, is England OK? Politics getting to him, maybe?" To England, he says, with a jarringly cheerful air, smile containing wattage enough to rival a thousand high-energy light bulbs: "How's the election going?"

An acid glare by way of response. The light bulbs dim somewhat. England then deigns to reply. "They are hashing and rehashing trivialities. Clegg and Cameron, that is. Although he has not rejected Labour's advances yet... Impossible man. He delights in playing the role of kingmaker." Having spoken, he toys with a loose thread on the armchair, then realises what he is doing - mutilating the furniture - and snaps it off daintily, looking a little abashed.

"You were crazy about him just a few weeks ago," America reminds England.

"_Yes_," says England; his tone drips with disapproval. "The thing about temporary lunacy is that it is just that: _temporary._"

"Cleggmania," sniggers America. "That was what they called it!"

"Your capacity for obsession with the trivial is astonishing."

"Cleggmania!" trilled America.

"Stop being so endlessly petty."

"_Cleggmania!_"

"... Idiot."

* * *

**France**

It was a numbing December; often, in order to outwit the cold, I would pause at Robespierre's lodgings in an attempt to absorb warmth by osmosis before travelling to my own. He would look startled yet welcoming every time, updating me on the workings of government when I had managed to miss the debates, trading observations, ideas and predictions.

Today, I had knocked to no avail. Yet I spotted a candle within the room – some signs of life! Spurred onwards by this faint hope (it really _was _cold outside), I pushed at the door, which yielded to my hand.

(Either he had forgotten to lock it, or had made a deliberate decision not to do so, on the basis that he trusted people. Both would have been typical of him.)

"Forgive the intrusion, Maxime, but I believe I would have frozen on the spot had I not taken refuge in-" here I paused, having spotted Robespierre, slumped on a spindly chair with his head hanging heavily in his hands. "Maxime." I rushed over, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Francis," he said, glancing up at me with a tentative smile. "My friend." With that, he allowed his head to droop once more – the very picture of exhausted defeat.

"What is the matter?" I said, very gently, kneeling next to him. Robespierre was hardly prone to such emotional behaviour – hence why this was worrying.

"I would not want to trouble you," he murmured, after a pause, "but this affects you also. You have an entitlement to the knowledge, and I suppose it falls to me to give you the news."

"Ominous indeed," I said, with perhaps a touch of levity. "It can hardly be as bad as you imply. Come – let us have this horrifying news. Dispense with the self-dramatising and out with it, already." All spoken with fondness, of course. Robespierre rarely panicked in response to major events; I imagined this could be of nothing but the utmost triviality.

He sat up, with a sudden surge of grim resolution. I smiled and this time he did not smile back. "The National Assembly," he said, "in their infinite wisdom, have voted to distinguish between 'active' and 'passive' citizens."

"What?"

"To wit – those who fulfil a property criterion will be enfranchised. Those without property are 'passive' citizens, and will thus be unable to vote."

I stared, uncomprehending.

"I stood against it," continued Robespierre. "Vehemently. I did my best, but I was in the minority."

They could not _do this _to me. They could not, once more, cut off all the voices I heard, the voices of my citizens –

"I am sorry," he said, gravely.

"Is this to be nothing but a rich man's revolution?" Every syllable of mine stabbed at the air, sharp and ineffectual. Scathing, but to no avail.

"No," said Robespierre, quietly, but with conviction.

"Is this all we are _capable _of?" I spat; verbal daggers piercing uselessly at an invisible, invincible enemy. Perhaps I was swiping at the shadows of Marat's words to me.

"_No,_" he insisted, firmly. His eyes locked with mine, determined and flinty with hope.

How could I remain caustic under such a gaze?

"Or have they clipped my wings?" I asked, more softly, acerbity forgotten. The question seemed to float in the air between us, like a drifting feather, dancing inexorably downwards.

He did not answer, but it was mostly down to avoidance of unnecessary repetition. His answer was still a firm, uncompromising _no. _"They've sabotaged you a little, certainly," he said, having regained his habitually flawless composure. "Yet the battle is not over."

I felt a small thrill down my spine, regardless of how commonplace the metaphor was. "Oddly enough, that statement is suitably vague enough to fill me with confidence."

He smiled and the tension eased somewhat. "My pleasure."

Somehow, the sudden flippancy was enough to make the situation slightly more bearable. Fraternity , I thought, although often dismissed as an afterthought tagged along to its more glamorous siblings liberty and equality, had the power to at least console. Perhaps in the future, if given the chance, it would even manage to achieve more. I had not given up on infinite possibilities – only on effortless victories.

* * *

**Present Day**

England slotted his fingers together in a steeple, forming a delicate rest for his chin. "Really, Frog, for all the time you waste assuring us you never idealised anybody, it seems for all the world to be your _hamartia." _He pauses. "One of many. _Hamartiae_?"

France smiles and shrugs. "Whereas you, _petit, _would categorise the mass of humanity as worthless, expendable buffoons, no?"

"No, actually. You know I wouldn't," says England, seriously.

"Reasonably intelligent underlings, then," ventures France, amused.

"We are all of us enthralled by humans; there's no point denying it," says England, sharply.

France chuckles. "No," he agrees. "I just wanted to see if you would try."

"They're fragile, of course. But then, so are we, when it comes down to it. We are a product of humanity; why would I seek to diminish them?" England seems genuinely hurt. Again, thinks France, this is typical of England. Insults, being traded habitually, are nigh on meaningless for him; misunderstand his finer feelings, however, and he will act wounded enough to suggest your utter brutality.

France nods, theoretically in agreement. "But that is exactly why I was captivated by it all. Who wouldn't have been?"

"People are volatile; revolutionaries even more so," scoffs England. "That's not demeaning – it's fact."

"Opinion, actually," France says, his bland tone carelessly screening mischief. England allows himself to be provoked, shooting him a look that screams _don't be so bloody pedantic. _France replies with a look which succinctly states: _hypocrite._

"People are people," says America, bluntly. "Is there really anything else you can say that's true?"

England snorts. "And tautology is tautology."

"Revolution is revolution," murmurs France. "Perhaps _that_ statement is neither tautology, nor the truth..."


End file.
